#if they did that... then what else were they planning to do?

[dannyriccsystem]

I love your writing!! Could you please do the drivers being soooo angry at the world and everyone’s scared to approach them but they’re soft for you(idk if that makes sense)

YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE SPRING HAS SPRUNG!

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

SUMMARY: When you’re the only one they can tolerate when they’re angry!

OVERALL W.C: 2.6k

WARNINGS: Mean drivers (soft with you), Y/N usage, not proofread

FEATURING: MV1, DR3, LN4, KA12, CL16, CS55, GR63, OP81

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

When Max was mad, everyone in the paddock knew. After the outcome of the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, the air was undeniably tense. Your boyfriend was reasonably upset with his penalty— He didn’t want to deny and say it was unfair, because it wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be upset about it.

It didn’t help that the FIA had cornered him immediately afterwards and lectured him on his censorship. He could write four thousand paragraphs on that topic alone, but he didn’t need to get into it right now. The 2025 season had been undeniably shit for Max overall. With all the booing and the RedBull seat switching. It was a pain for everyone.

Everyone seemed to be walking on glass, unsure of how to approach the angry man, currently holding the title of 2024 champion. It was a lot to handle. The RB garage was scurrying around, trying to get things straight. Then you walked in.

One of the mechanics tried to warn you, but you brushed off the incessant complaining and walked right over to the Mad Max. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the surprise blow up, but it never came. He seemed to melt in his seat right then and there, staring up at you with such gentle eyes.

“Hi Max,” You whispered in that sweet voice he loved as you situated yourself to stand between his legs. He wrapped his arms around your waist, staring up at you.

“Lieverd,” He greeted, pressing a kiss to your clothed stomach. “Did you enjoy the race?” He asked it so casually, as if nothing was upsetting him and nothing went wrong. You were so capable of washing his concerns away, it astounded even Max.

“It was good, although a little frustrating.” Prying eyes figured now would be the time. You brought up his mistakes, so the only reasonable plan of action was to scold you like the mad man he was. But no, Max just chuckled and nodded.

“I know it better than anyone else.” You took a step back to let him stand up, his hand finding yours. “I’m just glad we get a week off now.” You both exited the garage, hand in hand. Meanwhile, the remaining staff members all locked eyes, unsure if anyone would believe them when they inevitably told the entire paddock about the astounding spectacle.

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

It had been a really tough race for Daniel. He was typically a very positive and charismatic guy— Most people found that it was easy to love Danny, because no matter what happened, he tried to keep a positive attitude about it. This time was different.

He was approached by his engineer after his crash. Normally they’d discuss what went wrong, but instead, Danny brushed him off. He screamed in anger, clearly feeling immensely unsatisfied with his performance, as well as how the team was treating him.

You saw this. You saw him be angry and dismissive, but you approached anyway, because Danny needed you. You just knew it. Before he could even take his helmet off, you were standing before him. If you were anyone else, he might have shoved you aside or barked a comment at you, but instead he just pulled you into his arms, clinging to you tightly.

“Worst fucking race ever,” He’d mutter. He sounded harsh, but his voice was rid of malice. He slipped his helmet off and set it aside, allowing him to bury your face in your neck, inhaling your scent.

You ran your fingers through his curls, humming a low tune. “I’m still proud.” You could feel him smile against you. It was a seemingly slow process, but eventually his lips curved up into that grin you knew and loved. “It’s one bad performance out of many.”

“Yeah, I know.” He muttered, only audible to you. He was always like this, seeking comfort in your relaxing presence. When he pulled away, his hands were still upon your hip. “I think I’d be lost without you.”

“Glad you recognize that,” The two of you shared a laugh.

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

Lando had been pissed off all day. He showed up to the MTC in a bad mood, and it was very obvious to everyone. Nobody tried to ask why, because it seemed like every syllable directed towards him just put Lando in a worse mood.

He carried out the rest of the day feeling crappy. He didn’t seem to retain any of the information from the meetings, got nothing productive done, and ended up making them re-film a video for the Mclaren youtube channel like eight times. It was beginning to get uncomfortable for everyone else.

He was excused early, and told to go home and get some rest. When he arrived to the hotel you were both staying at, he still seemed fairly mad. He was just angry with the world, harboring a negative feeling from his performance at the last race.

Lando wanted nothing more than to scream and shout when he came back, but when he saw you lying on the bed looking so soft and sweet, it all melted away. You grinned at him, and for the first time all day he smiled back.

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” You questioned with the tilt of your head. He didn’t answer, he just dived into the bed beside you, immediately encasing you in all his limbs. You laughed, your own arms finding his body immediately, and hugging him close.

“I missed you.” He finally spoke, his voice a whisper against your neck. He laid a few sloppy kisses there, just upon instinct.

“I missed you too.” You had never seen him behave in such a way. Lando was always somewhat clingy, but this was different. He seemed entirely dependent for a moment. Not that you were complaining.

You were just what he needed in that moment.

—

KIMI ANTONELLI - KA12

It was hard to imagine Kimi Antonelli truly angry. He seemed so happy most of the time, which is why it took everyone by surprise. Nothing should have angered him, either. He qualified quite high, especially for a rookie. But for some unknown reason, he was pissed.

The problem is, he had a hard time looking angry. He sort of just looked monotone from afar, but when anyone tried to talk to him, he’d get snappy and dismissive and the other person would eventually just leave him alone. It was weird. Even Ollie had trouble communicating with the guy.

“Kimi-” He heard your voice, and he immediately perked up. His head swiveled around the Mercedes garage, and his eyes immediately locked into you. You were talking with George, that sort of awed look on your face. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he could assume it was about him.

When George finished talking you gave a confused look and shook your head, pushing past him. “Kimi you did great today!” Everyone watched, waiting to see what he would say. What sort of backhanded comment would he make this time? Hopefully someone had a tissue, he might even make you cry.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He had a boyish grin on his face, and he appeared somewhat dreamy as he stood up to greet you. He kissed your hand politely, and then both of your cheeks. “Did you see? I qualified P5!”

It was incredible. No anger, no disrespect, no snappy attitude.

“I did see! You’re doing so good this year.” Everyone claimed it was solely because of the team. He raced for Mercedes, of course he’d do good. Maybe that’s why he was upset, because whenever he received a compliment, it always seemed like it was directed towards the car rather than him.

But you… You were supporting him. He gave you a cheeky kiss on the lips, whispering in a soft giggle, “Grazie, cara mia…”

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

The day had been especially rough for Charles. It was almost as if the whole world was pitted against him. The team strategies had been extra disappointed, he was continuously receiving hate for his performance, and the pit wall was being extra frustrating today. After the race, he seemed rigid and cold towards the rest of the team.

He stormed off to his drivers room, trying to seem as polite as physically possible when he was experiencing this sort of rage. He sat down on the sofa, burying his head in his hands. He felt like the next person he saw was going to end up getting decked in the face— Which was ironic, because soon after the thought crossed his mind, the door creaked open.

“What-” He spat out bitterly, but froze when he saw you. You looked surprised, mouth slightly agape. His demeanor melted away into something softer, his brows knitted together in an expression that was damn near pathetic. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

You carefully shut the door behind you, and then leaned back against it. It was silent for a moment, filled with comfortable eye contact as you let him adjust to your presence. He appreciated how understanding you always were. At times, Charles felt like he was taking you for granted.

“I know you’re upset,” You murmured quietly. You finally pushed away from the door and sat beside him, your shoulders brushing. He flinched at first, and then leaned his head over to rest on your shoulder. You hummed, following his lead and pressing your own head against his. “We don’t have to talk about it if you—”

“I don’t,” He spoke shortly and softly. You pursed your lips into a sad smile, nodding with understanding. “Thank you.” He shut his eyes, letting himself relax as he softened beside you.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

When you stepped foot into the Williams garage, you were faced with the unpleasantry of stares and quiet whispers. You glanced around yourself at the mechanics and other staff, who were acting rather shifty. It had never been like before; you were typically greeted with kindness, but right now you felt somewhat alienated.

You continued walking, brushing past the odd behavior, hoping that you weren’t the root of the problem. You figured Carlos was in his driver’s room, because he wasn’t present amongst the others. You put your hand on the door knob, but one of the mechanics rushed over to stop you.

“Wait-” They blurted out in a whisper-yell, waving their hands around. You froze, pulling your hand back as you pivoted, facing their direction. “Y/N, you probably don’t wanna go in there.”

This was starting to worry you. Your brain automatically jumped to the worst possible assumptions. “What? Why?” You questioned, looking uncertain as you began to reach for the handle once more. Was Carlos being unfaithful? These thoughts plagued your mind.

“He’s been super upset all day. Everyone’s made him angry.” They explained, shifting nervously. Your eyebrows furrowed as you hummed in thought. If Carlos was upset, you should be there for him.

“Thank you for the warning, but I can handle this.” You gave a polite smile, although you were somewhat frustrated with such unprofessional behavior. With a deep breath, you entered into his moody fortress. He was laying back on the small couch provided, his kneees scrunched up and one arm over his eyes.

Carlos slowly tilted his head, one eye peeking out from his makeshift blindfold. When he saw you, he didn’t say anything, he just sat up, manspreading and leaning with his elbows on his knees. “Hey,” He tried to force a smile.

“Hi,” You grinned sincerely, standing right in front of him. He looked up at you, and then tugged you down to sit perched on his lap. He leaned back against the wall, pulling you close to his chest.

You understood. He needed you— Your warmth and your comfort. You wrapped your arms around him, letting him safely bury his face in your neck. You both sat there silently, healing.

—

GEORGE RUSSELL - GR63

George was always regarded as the paddock’s mean girl. Regina George, of course. It was funny in theory, assuming it was just a silly joke shared between friends. It was funny until George realized people truly perceived him in such a way, disliking him for his “hateful ways.”

Most of the time he was just speaking the truth. There was lots of animosity between drivers on the track, and he was going to be truthful when interviewers asked him for his opinion. If he thought of someone as a bully, he’d happily call it out because sugarcoating it certainly wouldn’t help.

He was especially frustrated today. He was told to keep his peace and stay silent about any future conflicts, because his forward thinking caused a bad outlook on the team. That alone was enough to piss him off, but considering some unfair play that took place during the race itself, it was like adding fuel to the fire.

He knew you would be the solution to this issue. He always felt serene when you were around, which is why George immediately sought you out after the race. It didn’t matter to him that he came P4 and was supposed to celebrate— He wanted your comfort, and he wanted your praise and approval.

He found you on the sidelines, and he practically jumped the barrier to pull you into a hug, kissing you directly on the lips. He felt his anger beginning to fade as you smiled against him, whispering an “I love you” that was shared between only the two of you.

That’s all he needed to hear to know everything would be just fine.

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

Oscar rarely showed an emotion that wasn’t joy, or just his typical monotone expressions. Sure, he experienced rage and sadness just like everyone else, but he portrayed it differently. Like right now, instead of screaming at everyone to ensure his wrath was made known, Oscar was silent. Abnormally silent. Not a single thank you to the team, or a congratulations to his teammate, Lando.

He was quiet.

The absence of sound wasn’t abnormal, but it was usually when someone else was talking that Oscar remained so silent. This paired with his blank dissociating stare was enough to intimidate everyone amongst Mclaren. He was pissed, to put it lightly.

You walked in, and everyone stared at you as if you were a ray of sunlight, or as if you were their guardian angel. You greeted the team with a kind smile, calling a few of the people you were closer with out by their name. You were undeniably charming, and certainly a perfect match for Oscar.

He stood up to greet you, and he couldn’t control his smile anymore. There was a collective sigh of relief amongst everyone, who could safely continue their work without worrying about Oscar silently breathing down their neck. He kissed both of your cheeks and then finally your lips. “Thank you for coming to the race,” He spoke politely.

“Of course! You did great.” He only placed third, but that was clearly enough for Oscar as long as you were congratulating him. If not, he’d usually appear a little more grumpy, like he did moments ago. “Give me the rundown.” Of course you were watching, but you didn’t get to experience everything he did firsthand. It was always more entertaining to hear it directly from the source.

“Well,” He began his rant, and all was well with the Mclaren team.

[clockwayswrites]

A Hill to Die On Ch 6, Part 1 (only?)

Masterpost this is a first draft, please no editing or concrit <3 I am headache. I am pain.

CW: deff implied sexual content on either end and Danny and Alvin both being disasters.

[Good times are had for Danny and Tim involving walls and mouths and Tim being happily used.]

-

Danny rolled over in bed, hand narrowly missing the attempted grab. He let out a low grumble into his pillow before he mumbled, “Come back to bed, Tim.”

“Not Tim.”

It was so clear when that sunk in by the way that Danny tensed for a moment before he very obviously forced himself to relax. He turned his head enough to get one eye open. “Not Caroline either.”

“Nope.”

“So, unless there’s another one, you’re Alvin.”

“And you’re a real genius. I can see why Tim likes you,” Alvin deadpanned. He put the trinket that he’d been looking at back down on Danny’s side table.

“Do we have to do this meeting at…” Danny grappled for his phone and squinted at the too bright screen. “Two forty-two in the morning?”

“Nope,” Alvin said and headed towards where he guessed the kitchen might be, “but I’m getting a drink. I can still taste your cock and I wasn’t even the one who sucked it.”

“You wish you had!” Danny called after him.

“Like fuck I do!” Alvin called back. He found the fridge and opened it to instant regret at the bright light.

Danny must had gotten up because there was mumbled cussing, shuffling around, and then the sound of a chair scraping across the linoleum floor.

“Pick something already, you’re letting the penguins out,” Danny complained through a yawn.

Alvin rolled his eyes and grabbed the orange juice. “Letting the penguins out’, fuck, where did they even find you?”

“At a club. And use a glass. Cabinet closest to the fridge,” Danny said.

Alvin considered not using a glass just to spite the order, but grabbed one in the end. “Thought we weren’t doing this at two forty-two in the morning.”

“Yeah, well, you finally show up after you’ve never even texted me back, so I feel kinda obligated to be conscious if you’re going to actually be around,” Danny said. He’d pulled on some boxers and was more slumped at the table then sitting at it.

Alvin slid Danny a glass of the juice before shoving the bottle back in the fridge. He leaned against the counter and took a long drink from his own glass. There were a lot of unasked questions in that, questions that Alvin didn’t know where to start with or even if he wanted to start at all. Coming out tonight hadn’t exactly been part of a plan.

“You don’t have to,” Alvin said eventually. “Not me that you’re dating. Or fucking.”

Danny tensed a little at that. Interesting.

“Nope,” Danny said with purposeful casualness, “and we don’t have to do either just because I’m with Tim and Caroline. But it’s your body too, so I’d at least like us to be amicable with each other.”

Alvin snorted at that. “Yeah, you’re just fine if there’s this whole other person thing rattling around in your boyfriend’s—girlfriend’s? In your lover’s body?”

“Well, yeah,” Danny said like it was really that fucking simple. “I knew you came as part of the package. You’re not a thing, Alvin, you’re a person just like Caroline or Tim.”

Alvin tossed the rest of the OJ back and set the glass down with a clank. “Naw, Tim’s the real boy. Caroline’s a pretty face. I’m just Pinocchio.”

“That’s not true,” Danny said. His passion was almost vehement. “Even if Tim was the first one around or the first one named, you and Caroline are still here and real and deserve to be treated like the real people you are.”

What was he supposed to say to that. Alvin just crossed his arms and looked away.

“I mean it, Alvin,” Danny said. The chair squeaked again as Danny got up and came around the table. “I’d like to get to know you when you’re around. And if we don’t end up together too, okay. If you want to be with someone else, okay. We’d just need to make sure the others feel safe and you protection and get tested and stuff, same as we have.”

“Ugh, you guys are bare backing it, aren’t you?” Alvin groaned dramatically.

Danny just shrugged out of the corner of Alvin’s eyesight. “We’re exclusive, unless you change that, and traded test results. Didn’t seem a reason not to do that. Besides,” Danny continued with a suspicious smugness. “Tim likes to gag on it.”

“Oh fuck you,” Alvin said. He grabbed the dish towel at his hip and tossed it at Danny, who caught it laughing.

“Dude, you’re the one standing naked in my kitchen drinking juice,” Danny pointed out.

Alvin huffed and crossed his arm again. “I’m not like Tim and Caroline.”

“I’ve figured that out pretty quickly. Genius, remember?” Danny teased.

Alvin narrowed his eyes. “I mean that I don’t like to ‘gag on it’. I don’t want to be fucked either.”

Danny just shrugged again. “That’s fine. I’m pretty sure Caroline is like, basically picking out a nice silicone cock or two to fuck me with.”

Alvin’s nose scrunched up. “She has a real one.”

“And if she isn’t comfortable using it, that’s fine.” Danny was aggravatingly easy going. “Besides, I think she has plans.”

“Your funeral.”

“Trust me,” Danny said with a toothy smile, “I’ll rest like the dead after.”

Alvin eyed the pointy teeth. “I can’t tell if I hate you a little or really want to bend you over the table and fuck you.”

“Hate sex is good too,” Danny said, smile suddenly all too innocent.

Seriously, who had Caroline found in that club? He was cheerful and annoying and hot and way too horny—Alvin lunged forward and captured Danny’s mouth with his own, as if he could devour that innocent little smile and all the sin that it promised.

When in Rome, or something.

[leo-in-the-pitt]

Look Out For Her

Summary: 4 years later and your almost done with residency. But it feels like your relationship with Jack may be coming to an end too. That is until you’re hurt and he has to come to your rescue, that he reveals his true feelings for you.

Warnings: Established relationship, implied age gap, strong language, sexual assault, mentions of alcohol, possessiveness, mostly fluff

This is possibly a Chapter 1!

———————————————————————

You were half way through your 4th and final year of ER residency. Somehow still learning the ropes of being cheif resident. It wasn’t easy to have the respect of your fellow co-residents and interns when you were in a relationship with Dr. Jack Abbott, an ER attending but, he made it worth it. Most of the time at least.

Getting to this point in your relationship wasn’t always easy in anyway. What started as hook ups, turned into arguements during every shift you worked together until you cut it off. But when 3rd year came around, you guys got close again, he let you in and you let him in.

A year and a half. In your mind, this was the start of forever. At least that’s what you thought.

For the past month, Abbotts been distant and you didn’t understand why. Picking up shifts on the days you were both off, date nights were becoming a rarity, bailing on nights out with your friends.

You had a week off coming up and wanted to see if you could make it up to him, for whatever you did even though you didn’t even know where to begin.

You moved in with him 6 months into the relationship. Everyone told you it was quick but, it felt like the right decision at the time.

You woke up early while he was still at work to go pick up breakfast from his favorite spot downtown. Got home made your famous homemade peanut butter cookies that he loved. Had his favorite movies lined up, ready to play. Even put on lingerie under your clothes, ready for whatever he wanted.

You heard keys in the door and were excited for him to see what was waiting for him.

There he was. Silver curls. Black scrubs. Go-bag over one shoulder. You could look at him forever.

“There’s my favorite guy.” You ran up to him to give him a hg and kiss.

He hugged you back but, swerved his head ever so slightly when you went in to kiss him.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Just had a long night. Not really in the mood for anything.”

“I planned out quite the morning for us.” You smiled at him.

“Think I’m just gonna go hop in the shower then head to bed for a little bit.” He started to walk away.

You quickly turned around to him. “Okay, no, what is your problem? Did I do something? Cause for the past month you’ve been acting cold. Blowing me off ever chance you get.”

He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face you. He looked pissed. You’d only ever seen him angry like that once during a stupid fight you guys had at the beginning of the relationship.

“You left your laptop open.”

“Okay and? I’m I supposed to know what that means?”

“Were you going to tell me that you have a bunch of interviews for attending jobs at other hospitals? Or were you just going to tell me you were leaving one day?”

“Jack everyone goes to multiple interviews. You literally did the same when you were in my position.”

“One of those is across the country.”, he paused, “Were you gonna pack up and fly over there without telling me?”

“Thought maybe you could come with me and we could make a trip out of it actually.”

He put his head in his hands. “Do you want to leave?” His voice cracked.

“What? Why would I want to leave you Jack? I literally have an interview with Robby in 2 weeks for a spot here. I’m just trying to see what else is out there too.”

“But you have everything you could need right here! Why do you wanna give it all up!He raised his voice at you.”

You took a step back.

“Don’t yell at me.” You felt your breathing become faster, chest heavy.

“Why would you not tell me? This is something we should be talking about together. This isn’t just about you.”

“And it’s not just about you. It’s my future Jack. My career we’re talking about.” You said sternly.

“So where do I fit into that future then?”

You didn’t know how to answer. “You know I love you.”

“I sense a but coming here.”

You took a deep breath. “But there’s an emergency medicine research fellowship in California. They’re really interested in me Jack. Like really interested.”

“Sounds like you made up your mind already.” He walked away and went into the bedroom.

“Jack please. I didn’t say yes to anything yet. I still have to go over there and meet with them. I might end up hating it.”

He was throwing clothes into his go-bag. You grabbed his arm and he swiftly pulled away.

“So that’s it? You’re just going to leave? Where are you even going?”

He held both hands up in the air. “I just need some air.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know. I- I just can’t do this with you right now.”

“So if not now, then when. Jack. Come on we talked about this. Never leave mad at each other.”

“I’m not mad.”, he looked down at you, “Just disappointed.”

He grabbed his bag and walked out of the room. You felt the tears start to run down your face.

“Jack please.” You begged.

You heard him pick his keys up off the table and door slam closed behind him.

You broke. Tears streaming down your face. You sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Your reached into your pocket for your phone and tried to call him.

Once. Twice. Three times with no answer. Straight to voicemail.

You laid in bed, crying. Eyes already swelling. After went felt like an eternity, you fell asleep.

You woke to the sound of a text message.

Please be Jack.

It wasn’t. Just Langdon.

He knew you were planning Jacks favorites for the morning and wanted to know how it went. You typed out as much of what just happened as you could. He called immediately.

He could hear you crying again.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

“Frank, I- I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where he went. He turned his location off. He won’t answer my calls or texts. I just wanna know that he’s okay.” You voice broke as you tried to get the words out.

“Hey look I’m just gonna come over okay?” Gimme like 20 minutes, I’ll be right there. Please just hold on.”

“Okay.” He hung up.

You got out of bed and threw on one of Jacks sweaters. Beers of the Burgh. Him and Robby went together every year. You hated beer so you never went, just let them have their special guy time.

You went into the bathroom and saw how bloodshot your eyes had become. Splashed some water on your face and went into the living room.

Almost exactly 20 minutes later. A knock on your front door. Langdon.

You opened the door.

“Hey kid.” He always called you could since the first day you met even though he was only 4 years older.

Tears again. You almost fell to the floor. He caught you and lifted you up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you.”

He walked you into the kitchen, had you sit at one of the bar stools and went to get you a glass of water. He knew his way around. Afterall he did help you move in and came over often for movie nights when Jack was at work.

You spent the next hour trying to explain what happened. Talking. Crying. He listened to it all.

“Have you tried to call him again?”

You sniffled. “No, if he doesn’t want to talk to me, I can’t make him.”

“He has to come back eventually you know?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” You wiped your eyes onto your sleeve.

“Hey, me and some of the others from work were gonna go out later for some drinks downtown. Probably do some bar hopping. Maybe you should come? Get your mind off of things for a little bit?”

“What if he comes back and I’m not here?”

“Maybe that’d be for the best. Think you both need some time to cool off.”

You agreed. “Yeah sure why the hell not. He never wants to come out with me anyway.”

“Alright, go get ready then.”

“It’s early.”

“Its 5:30 and you definitely take forever to get ready. Plus you gotta unpuff your eyes.”

You quickly turned to the clock on the kitchen wall. Shit, how long were you asleep for? How long was he gone for?

“Okay alright then. Are you gonna stay here?”

“Yeah I’ll just watch some tv or something while you get ready. I’ll drive us.”

You went into the bedroom, scavenging the closet for something to wear. Red dress. Jack picked it out one day when you two were at the mall a couple months ago. You hadn’t worn it yet. You were waiting until he finally decided to go out-out with you. Which obviously never came.

You grabbed the dress, his favorite matching bra and pantie set and went to shower. There was a part of you that wanted him to come home to see you. But at the same time you just wanted to forget about all that happened just a few hours earlier.

Out the shower. Quickly dried your hair. Threw some light curls in it. Jacks favorite hairstyle on you. You didn’t like makeup but, put some mascara and lipgloss on anyway.

You walked into the bedroom to grab your little black heels. And walked back out into the kitchen.

Langdon was laying on your couch on his phone.

“Ugh, told you you were gonna take forever. It’s time to go, everyone’s of there way to the first place.” He sat up and turned around. “Damn kid, you clean up nice.”

“Well thanks Frank.” You gave him a side eye.

“You hoping to run into him tonight or something?”

“I- don’t know, it’s just that he picked this outfit out so, I don’t know maybe I guess.”

It’s almost as if Jack knew you were talking about him. Keys jingled in the door. It’s him.

He opened the door to see you standing there in the dress he picked out.

You both stared at each other while Langdon looked back and forth, unsure if he should leave you two alone.

“You look good. Really good.” He scanned you top to bottom.

Your heart was about to jump out of your chest. “Thanks.”

You turned towards Langdon, “We gotta go.”

“Yeah sure.” He jumped up and walked towards the door. He stopped in front of Jack.

“Gimme a second with her.”

Langdon shook his head and walked passed Jack and out into the hallway.

“Can we talk?”

“Now’s clearly not the time.” You walked into the bedroom, grabbed his sweater off the bed and walked out. “I have places to be.”

“Where exactly are you going anyway?”

“Why does it matter to you? I didn’t know where you were all damn day.”

“I was at the park. The park I asked you to be my girlfriend in.”

“You just sat there in your scrubs all day?”

He looked down at his clothes. “I’m actually going back in tonight for a shift.”

You scoffed. “Typical. Anything to avoid me huh?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I? I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m clearly not Jack. Please just let me through.”

“Just be safe. Okay?” He stepped out of the doorway and out of your way.

“Always.” And you left.

Langdon was waiting in the hall for you. You walked right passed him.

“Hey.” He stopped Langdon. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“I shouldn’t have to.” And with that you were both on your way.

At the first bar you met up with other coworkers. Nurses, coresidents, EMTs. And apparently more people were on the way.

“Didn’t realize how many people were coming tonight?” You yelled over the music.

“Yeah me either.” Shrugged Langdon.

After the first 2 drinks and tequila shot, you realized you had ate all day. And you can’t handle your liquor.

You sat alone at the bar sipping water, looking down at your phone lock screen. A picture of you and Jack at a concert together, happy. He wasn’t into live music but, if it were for you, he’d listen to anything.

“Boyfriend couldn’t make it?”said the bartender nodding down at your phone.

“Yeah something like that.”

“That’s his problem. You look good.”

You smiled. Langdon came up behind you.

“Hey we’re heading across the street. Heard it’s 90s music night over there.”

You got up and went with the group. Thought you’d feel better by now. That you’d be able to distract yourself by talking to everyone, drinking, and listening to the music while dancing. It wasn’t working well.

Here you had 2 more drinks. 2 more shots.

Onto the next bar.

By this time, well over a a dozen people were apart of the group.

Fourth bar. More drinks. More shots. And you could feel it. But the more you drank the more you thought about him.

You went to sit at the bar alone. You checked you phone to see that he turned his location back on. The hospital, of course.

One the nurses came up to you. “Come on girl! Let’s go dance!”

“Yeah I’ll be right there.”

No texts or calls from him.

You took a deep breath and another sip of water. As you got up, you saw a guy watching you from the corner of the room. He winked and nodded his head at you. You politely smiled and went to your friends.

No matter what, Jack wouldn’t leave your mind.

There he was. The guy watching you across the room.

“Hey baby, looking good tonight.”

“Haha, thanks.” You were uncomfortable with how close he was to your face but didn’t want any problems.

“You got a man?”

“Yeah I do a actually.”

He scanned the room. “Guess he’s not here tonight huh?”

“He couldn’t make it. Working.”

“Well that’s his loss.”

Langdon spotted you across the dance floor.

“Hey, you gotta go see Donnie playing darts. It’s crazy!”

“Yeah sure.” You turned to the stranger and half waved goodbye.

“See you later.” He winked at you.

“Who the hell was that?”

“No idea.”

“Come on, stay close.”

“What about the darts?”

“They don’t even have darts here.”

It was now 1AM. You head pounding. Each room spinning. One last bar. One more drink. You lost count.

“Come on, one more tequila shot girl!”

“Yeah sure whatever.” You took it hoping the alcohol would down the feelings out of you.

Everyone was dancing, having a good time. You just wanted to be in Jacks arms, in your bed, in the apartment you had shared for over a year.

You looked over at a couple of your friends. “I’ll be right back.” Those who heard you nodded their heads.

You went outside. Alone. Still carrying Jakcs sweater, you decided to put it on. Not zipping it up but, just wrapping it around your body. You stood up against the wall on the side of the bar. Out of view.

Took out your phone. Stared. And finally dialed Jack’s number. No answer. Try one more time. Nothing.

But the thrid time you left a voicemail.

“Jack, it’s me. Um you probably knew that already, you know caller ID and everything. B-but,” your words one slipping into another, “I think I just want to say I’m sorry. I should’ve talked to you about leaving. I’m stupid I know. But I love you. I always have. I- always will. I don’t want to leave you. Ever. You’re it for me Jack Abbott. I don’t want anyone else, or anything else. You’re the person I’ve been looking for my whole life. You make me a better person. I want you forever. Please just pick up the god damn phone. I need to hear your voice,”

You heard the bar door open behind you. The music rushed out into the street before becoming quiet again.

The stranger. Back again.

“Hey you get lost out here?”

“Jack I gotta go, I’ll see you soon.” You hung up.

“Not lost, just needed some air.”

“Yeah, yeah. It can get so hot in there.” He stepped closer to your body. “You know when I said you looked good tonight, baby I meant it.” He licked his lips.

“Thanks again.” You tried to step around him to go back inside.

He blocked you.

“Where you rushing off to? Not like your man is here to take care of you.”

“I gotta get back to my friends.”

“It’s okay I can take care of you out here.” He wrapped his arm around your waist pulling you closer to him.

Your body now pressed against his. Heart pounding in your ears. He grabbed your waist with his other had before reaching down to cup your ass.

You tried to pull away. But his grip was tight. He pushed you against the cold brick wall, pinning you body with his. One hand on your waist. The other holding your arm against the wall. Scraping the skin on the back of your arm right off.

He leaned down into your ear. “Come on sweetheart. I can treat you better then he can.” His hand sliding to meet the bottom of that red dress. “I’ll show you want a real man looks like.” You felt his cold hand on your thigh.

This can’t be happening. Not like this. Not right in front of the bar. Where is everybody? Langdon? Oh god, where’s Jack?

All the thoughts ran through your head.

He kissed your cheek. You flinched.

“Damn sweetheart, wanna play hard to get I see. I can play along with that.”

He let go of your arm. He started to reach for your neck.

You pushed him. Hard. He stumbled back.

“You dumb bitch. You’re gonna have to pay for that.” He took a step towards you.

Pain. Throbbing pain was the next thing you remembered. Then blood. Yours? Or his?

Both.

You punched him. Right in the face.

You used to kickbox not long ago. Guess you still remember how to swing.

“Fucking bitch.”

You screamed. Loud. Loud enough for the security guards to hear you inside the bar. They came running around the corner.

Blood was pouring out of his crooked nose. Blood dripping down your arm from your knuckles.

One security guard grabbed him. “Guess you met you match huh? Come on, got some cops that are gonna love your ass.” He took him away.

“You alright? Come on let’s get you inside and get that cleaned up.” He walked you inside.

———————————————————————

Jack got your voicemail. Almost right after you hung up. He tried to call you back. No answer.

So he called Langdon, who was still inside the bar.

“Hey man, what’s up?” Langdon was drunk.

“Dude I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here.”

“Yeah well you should be here! It’s a great time!”

“Where is she?”

“You gotta be more specific broo”

“My girlfriend. You know the one you’re supposed to be looking out for. She called me. Left a voicemail actually. Sounded like she was talking to someone. Then hung up. Where is she?”

Langdon scanned the room. “Uh I don’t know man.”

“Can you go find her please? She sounded drunk , almost as drunk as you. I’m worried. She doesn’t handle her liquor well.”

“Yeah man, I gotchu, I’ll go find her.”

“Alright call me when you find her. I wanna talk to her.”

“Aye aye captain.”

And Langdon hung up.

He walked around the room. Asking anyone and everyone if they had seen you. No one knew where you went.

That was until you walked back in with security.

———————————————————————

Everyone immediately saw you.

Red dress with blood down the side. Blood running down your forearm. Knuckles bruised and swollen already.

You heard a murmur of “what the fucks” and “oh shits”

Langdon came running over almost immediately sobering him up seeing you like that.

“What the fuck happened?!” He reached to grab your blooded fist.

You winced in pain. Mascara running down you face. “The guy from the other bar.” Yo could barely get the words out.

He looked over your shoulder and saw the guy standing outside with security and blood running down his face.

“Oh I’m gonna go kick his ass!” He tried to get passed you.

“No, no, Langdon, stop, the police are already coming.”

“I don’t give a fuck, I’m gonna break his nose some more.”

“Please, just go get me some ice.”

“What’d he do to you?”

“Ice, Frank, please.”

He went up to the bar for your ice. You could see the police lights shining through the window.

3 police cars. 6 police officers.

You told everyone to stay inside while you went to talk to them. Langdon begged to go with you so you gave in and let him.

At this point, the guy was already sitting in the back of one of their cars. Hands cuffed behind his back.

You told them exactly what happened as you held the ice pack against your knuckles.

Langdons eyes teared up hearing what happened. He was supposed to protect you.

“You wanna press charges?” said one of the officers.

“Of fucking course she does.” Said Langdon.

“I need to hear it from her.”

You shook your head yes.

“You can either come to the station now. Or you can come in the morning.”

“What she needs is to go to the hospital. The hand is broken. Definitely in multiple places.”

“No, it’s not, I’m fine.”

“I’m literally a doctor, how are you gonna tell me it’s not broken? Have you not looked at your own hand?”

You took the ice off. Your hand was basically twice its original size. Fuck. He was right.

“Well that guy wants to go to the hospital too. Can’t take y’all to the same place so where you wanna go so we can send him somewhere else?”

“Can you take me to Pittsburgh Trauma?”

“Yeah let’s go.” You gestured to the police cruiser and opened up the door for you.

“Can I come with?” Langdon asked him.

“Absolutely not. Get a ride or call an Uber. You’re drunk. Drive yourself and I’ll have you arrested.”

“I’ll be right there, okay? I promise you.”

He went back inside the bar.

———————————————————————

All you could think about on the ride there was Jack. How he had to see you like this.

You finally checked your cellphone.

5 unread texts messages. 7 missed phone calls. And one voicemail. All from him.

You presssed play.

“Hey, it’s me. I know you probably don’t wanna hear from me right now and even if you do it’s just the alcohol talking. But look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted the way that I did. I guess I’m just scared. I don’t want you to go. I can’t afford to lose you. Of course I want you to pursue whatever career opportunities you want, but I don’t think I can live without you. You make me want to be a better man. You make everyone around here better. I love you. I want to spend my life with you. I want to marry you. Have a family with you. All here, all in Pittsburgh. I want whatever you’ll give me. I- I just need to to stay. Please. Look I gotta get back to work but call me back when you get this okay? Love you babygirl. See you soon.”

You didn’t know if your tears where from the throbbing pain shooting down your arm or from his words.

You got to the ambulance bay. You swung your legs out of the car. Feet killing you from the heels. The officer helped you out of the car and walked you inside barefoot.

One of your coresidents spotted you.

“What the fuck? Do I even want to know what happened here?”

“Get Jack, please.” You said practically begging.

You waited for what felt like an eternity from him to find Jack in a patients room.

“This better be important. I was in the middle of something.” Jack snapped his off into the trash.

He looked up and his eyes caught yours.

“What the fu-“ he ran over to you.

He grabbed your arm as you winced and pulled back in pain.

“Babygirl what happened to you?” He leaned down to look into your eyes.

You broke. Immediately tears poured down your face.

“Come here, come here. I got you, you’re alright. No one gonna hurt you. You’re safe with me here.”

He held you in his arms while caressing your hair. The smell of alcohol of your breath obvious. “Come on, let’s go.” He wrapped his arm around you and walked you into a room and sat you down on the bed.

Your coresident ran to get all the supplies needed to clean and bandage you up.

“Get the hell out. I got this. Close the door of your way out.”

It was now just the two of you. Alone.

“Babygirl I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there with you. I shouldn’t have let you go.”

He started to clean the now dry blood off of you.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Do you wanna tell me how this happened?”

So you told him all of it. Every single detail.

“I’m gonna find that motherfucker, I swear to god. I’m gonna break his fucking kneecaps.”

“Jack, calm down.”

“No, he hurt you. I’m gonna hurt him.”

“His nose is already broken Jack.”

“I don’t give a fuck. He’s gonna get way worse than that from me.”

“Jack.” He kept cleaning your hand.

“Jack look at me.”

He slowly lifted his head until his eyes met yours.

“I’m gonna press charges. Whichever ones I can. I want them all.”

There was a knock of the door. One of the favorite night shift nurses.

“Hey sweetie brought you a fresh pair of scrubs and our finest grippy socks. X-rays ready for you. Just come out to the hall when your ready darling.”

“Thank you.”

“You need me to help you?”

“I can get dressed myself. You have other patients anyway.”

“Those patients don’t matter to me. You’re the only one I care about here.”

“Can I just have a minute alone Jack?”

He left you to change.you looked at your fist for the first time since you got to the hospital. Looked slightly better without all the blood.

You went into the hall and the nurse walked you down to xray as Jack waited by your room. Thank god the pain meds kicked in with the alcohol because you could barely open your hand.

As you walked back, you heard yelling.

“You were supposed to be fucking watching her! Not getting filthy fucking drunk and letting her wonder off alone!” Jack was throwing his hands in the air.

Langdon stepped up to his face. “I shouldn’t have to watch her for you. You’re here fucking boyfriend. You should’ve been there yourself. Or better yet, she should’ve wanted to stay at home with you!”

“You think you can judge my relationship? Last time I checked I’m not the one in the middle of a divorce and custody battle.”

“Jack!” You yelled down the hall. “Don’t.”

You walked over and pushed him into your room.

“Frank, I don’t blame you for any of this. I need you to know that.”

“No, he’s right, I should’ve been keeping my eyes on you. This shouldn’t have happened.”

“But it did happen. I’m okay. Or at least I will be. I’m not a kid, you don’t need to keep me on a leash. I shouldn’t have gone out there alone. No ones here to blame except the man who did this okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” You hugged him and walked back into your room.

Jack was pacing back and forth.

“I’m okay Jack. You can calm down.”

Another knock on the door. “X-rays are up.”

He walked over to the computer to open them up.

“What do you see?”

“Boxers fracture.” You pointed to the obvious gap between your bones.

“Gotta go get ortho to come set it in place.”

“Can you just do it?”

“I’ve hurt you enough tonight.”

He left and came back with an ortho resident who reset your hand and put it in a brace. “Gonna need another xray in 3 weeks to see how it’s healing. In the meantime just rest, ice and elevate. You got a lot of swelling so take it easy please.”

Just you and Jack alone again.

“Jack can we talk about what you said?”

“Which part?”

“On the phone. Your voicemail.”

He knew exactly which part you were referring to but, wanted you to say it.

“The part where I said I want you to stay?”

You shook your head no.

“Then which part?”

“The part where you said you that you want to marry me. Have kids with me. Build a life with me here.”

“I meant it all. Every last part.”

“I’m not leaving. I’m going to cancel all the other interviews. I wanna stay here. With you.”

“You don’t need to do that for me. This is your career we’re talking about here. You can’t give up these opportunities. They won’t come around again.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for us. Jack you’re more important than some job. This all means a lot to me but, it won’t mean anything if I can’t come home to you every night for the rest of my life.”

He leaned in a kissed you passionately. He pulled away and looked softly into your eyes.

“So Jack Abbott wants to marry me huh?” You said jokingly.

“Don’t worry I’m not gonna pull out a ring right now or anything. You gotta finish your residency first babygirl.”

“Well now I’ll be expecting a ring the day after I’m done.”

“Guess I better start working on that. But for now let’s get you and that broken hand home.”

“Your shift isn’t over for another 3 hours?”

“They’re gonna cover for me. Gotta get my lady home.”

The drive home was pretty silent. He just put your favorite Radiohead album on for you. He helped you out of his truck and lead you upstairs.

He helped you pick out your favorite pajamas and you went to take another shower. Forgot you had been wearing his favorite matching set under the dress when you left. Thought the night would be ending differently for you two.

Of course you were glad that you were on good terms now. But when he put his hand on your back as you were leaving the hospital, you flinched. And he definitely noticed.

Once the booze started to wear off, you started to realize the extent of what happening to you tonight.

You cried again in the shower. Used the hot water to wash away your tears for you. Put some drops in your eyes to hide the redness.

You took a deep breath before walking out to him in the kitchen. He was holding up the breakfast bagel you bought him that morning.

“Didn’t even see that you bought these.”

“You could always just eat it now if you want. Think I’m just gonna head to bed if that’s alright.”

He open the fridge and put the bagel back inside. “Yeah let’s go. I’m just gonna jump in the shower real quick.”

You climbed into bed. Curled yourself into a ball, facing away from where he would be laying. You were holding back tears. You wanted to be strong for him. There’s was already so much going on in your lives. The last thing he needed was to be worried about you more than he already was.

You head the bathroom door open and his footsteps coming closer. You closed you eyes and preteded to be asleep.

He peeked over to see you. Eyes closed. You felt as he crawled quietly into the bed to face you.

“Hey I know you’re not sleeping. We’ve been in the same bed for over a year now. You never fall asleep that fast.”

You let out a cry.

“Hey, come here. What’s wrong?” He put his hand on your back and you squirmed away as fast as you possibly could.

“I-I’m sorry”, you whimpered out.

“Can you look at me?”

You wiped the tears flowing down your cheek and rolled over to face him.

“You wanna talk about it yet?” He knew there was more going through your mind.

You shook your head. “I need you to hold me. Bu-but I’m scared for you to touch me. It’s not you, I- I don’t know what wrong with me right now. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. None of this is your fault, okay?”

You sat up, “Can you just put your arm out?”

“Like this?” He put right arm straight out.

You laid down so that his arm was between your head and shoulder.

“Wrap your arms around me, please Jack.”

He brought you as close as you could get to him. You cried into his chest.

“I got you, I got you. Nobody’s gonna hurt you ever again alright?”

You nodded and lifted you head up. He wiped away your tears.

“I love you so much babygirl. So much.”

“I love you too.” You laid back down into his chest.

Jack was wrong you could fall asleep fast. But only when you were in his arms.

Things were gonna be different from now on. Cause you ever trust anyone to put their hands on you again?

———————————————————————

Probably gonna end up making this a short series! Maybe just one more part! Let know what you guys think!

[barnacles34]

A Bourgeois Comedy

Male Reader x NJZ Haerin x NJZ Minji

18+ smut

a/n: I've been intensely sick these past days. Finally feeling better. Here's a little piece I did while I was sick. <3

IMPORTANT UPDATE

---

'Got a spare ounce of willpower?'

Minji didn't look up. 'Fresh out. Used it all resisting the urge to close this door.' 

'Harsh. What about caffeine? Any spare?'

'Machine's down the hall. Unless you've forgotten its location in the last twenty minutes?'

'Remember the location. Lack the motivation for the journey.' You leaned a shoulder against the frame. 'It's a whole thing.'

'Uh-huh.' Minji’s keyboard: click, click, tap. 'So you're just going to stand there?'

'It's low-energy loitering. Environmentally friendly.'

Her typing stopped. 'Go loiter somewhere else.'

'Can't. My energy reserves are critically low. Need a jumpstart.'

She finally turned her head. 'And how, precisely, do you plan on achieving that?'

'One second. Just a hand-hold. For sustenance. Come on.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because.' Her fingers paused over the keys. A hesitation. 'No. Just… no.'

'Is it the wilting? Maybe I should get these dark circles fixed? Would that help my case?'

'No. Don't do that. Please.' 

'Ah, the first 'please' of the day. Mark it down.'

'Ugh.' Just a grunt.

'You know, I know a Dr. Kim. Gangnam street. Supposed to be good.'

A laugh finally escaped her. 'You’re impossible.'

'Wrong. Minji,' you held out your hand, palm up flat. 'See this? Put your hand here. Just for a second. Scout's honor, no biting.'

'You're such a damn dork.'

'And you're a total loser.' You pulled the door closed behind you.

Half-teasing, half-hope. That's the tightrope you walk. Minji's rule is simple: cross the line, you're gone. Permanently. But you haven't been booted yet. You keep pushing, and somehow, you stick.

—

Later. Deep into the evening. She’s curled against you on the couch - soft fabric, faint flowery scent, warm. Some dumb dog grooming competition plays, unnoticed. You lean into her warmth, let your breath out, a little too heavy.

She shifts.

Then, she stilled completely. 'Okay.'

'Okay, what? Finally admitting the poodle deserved that ribbon?'

She turned her head, slow. Her gaze locked onto yours. 'Okay. Kiss me.'

'...Say again?'

'Kiss. Me. Simple concept, right?' She paused, her lips looking tangible in the worst way possible; and her next word slipping out quieter, almost desperate, 'Please?'

You scanned her face. No joke. No test. The usual script, ripped up. The Tom & Jerry routine dissolved. Her expression wasn't asking; it was direct, almost impatient. She just upended the world and expected you to keep up. That look. Yeah. That did it.

You had to get the last word, had to twist the knife just a little before you - inevitably - lost yourself. 'Right now? During the Shih Tzu semi-finals? Classy, loser.'

Then your mouth was on hers, and the world dissolved.

Soft. Unbelievably soft. Faint sounds vibrated from her throat into your mouth. Pulling back felt like surfacing, gasping for air. You saw her then: wrecked, face flushed bright pink, heated, a touch of stunned deer in her wide eyes. She just watched you, breathing unevenly. Her hand came up, thumb brushing, feather-light, across your bottom lip. Her eyes, implacable; her fingers, gliding along the firmness of your face.

'Right,' she said. Squeaked, almost.

Then: 'Love me.'

There was no air between you anymore. Lips like candy, velvety, gliding sickeningly sweet against yours. 

—

There were days. You think. You lost track anyway; waking tangled with Minji, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, skin bare, both of you exhausted in that specific, amorphous, body dissolving satisfying way. It felt jarringly new and utterly inevitable, all at once. Quiet morning light catching her cheekbone - in those moments, you understood:

'I think,' you murmured one dawn, finger tracing the curve of her bare glowing shoulder, so perfect you wanted to latch onto it, and never let go, 'I'd actually die for you.'

Her eyes fluttered open. A slow, sleepy smile touched her lips. 'Weirdo love bombing.’

You stopped. Thought about it. 'Okay, maybe tiny bit. But I'm serious.' You held up a stray strand of her hair against the light. 'This one hair? In danger? I'm finding a sword.'

'You don't own a sword,' she mumbled, burying her face against your chest.

'I know.'

—

The power dynamic shifted. She called it 'collecting back-pay,' this sudden, focused intensity on you. Cat and mouse reversed. She’d walk in, keys still singing, kick off her shoes while her eyes hunted you down. Undoing her ponytail in that split second. A look that just said: you, now. Her lips, often faintly bruised by evening's end, found yours before a single 'hello'.

Zero complaints.

‘Can’t you just… call in sick, babe?’ she murmured one night, fingers twisting in your tie. The one she’d given you. The one you wore every damn day.

Babe. Still landed weird. Good weird.

‘Can’t. They made me 'important' now, apparently.'

‘That’s… good, right?’ Adorable, how serious she looked.

‘God, no. Means I work twice as long for maybe five percent more pay. It's crap.'

‘My poor suffering man.’ Her hands worked the knot loose, sliding the tie down. ‘You work so hard.’

‘You wouldn’t believe.’

She slipped off her little house slippers, then sank down to her knees on the rug before you, still holding the end of your tie.

‘Just relax,’ she said, looking up, her eyes dark. ‘Lean back. I’ll make it all better.’

She unbuckled your belt; pants heaved lower along your thigh; then, her soft breaths riding along your clothed hardness. Then inch by inch, her hand tousled the cloth down. Staring intensely, her breaths looming on your shaft. 

Then: she licked a stripe along the side of your cock. Hand along your shaft at the base, holding you still as she pressed soft trailing stripes. Just as her tongue made a desperate path along the head, her mouth devoured you. 

A few coughs, deeper still. Mouth working you loose. Little strips of her spit trailing down, her hollowed cheeks - your hands were about to tear the fucking couch apart.

Deeper down her throat, you were dying, literally, constricted in the heavenliest of vices - cock trapped in Minji’s throat - you sprayed ropes and ropes down her mouth.

‘Gross.’

Yet she swallowed.

And cleaned your cock; with a gaze that bared no tired eyes.

You were in for the night.

—

A few days passed. Messy days. You were stuck together until the very last minute - each and every day. Entangled together; Minji would apply her eyeliner as you caressed her cheeks, and she’d nibble the ridge of your jaw while buttoning your shirt. 

Brilliant days.

—

At home, on a foggy evening, you spread yourself against the couch - waiting for Minji to come home. The door clicked, and you could hear Minji shuffle into the door.

She met your gaze, ‘Give me a kiss.’

So you did. 

Going deeper, feeling the soft curves of her entire body, hidden under damning cloth.

‘I need to fuck you so bad.’ A whisper into her perfect ear.

‘Uh. Babe.' She coughed, more out of shock than anything else. 'I brought someone over.’

You looked past her. There was someone there, standing.

A flushing redness spread across her cheeks, and she bowed - no comment.

Sturdy stiff, flushed hot; you exchange glances with Minji, who so lovingly has creased eyes of joy for you - a hint that she’ll tease you for however long it stays on her mind.

Brush off imaginary dust, try to maintain some semblance of courtesy in front of someone who’s shell shocked.

‘Hey!’ Not the best introduction.

‘Hi…’

Minji came to save the day, ‘Introduce yourself, come on.’ She pressed a hand to Haerin, a nervous butterfly.

‘I’m Haerin.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Haerin.’ You barely craggle out.

…

It’s white noise after this, you don’t remember anything; Haerin; that’s all you remember.

She was clad by a cloud of camo adjacents - green camo pants, a darker camo hat, and a grey jacket that clung against her slim body; but she was beautiful, wandering big eyes, thin long fingers decorated with painted nails.

Her eyes, even in careful rumination of Her, you gravitate toward her eyes - careful, soft, feline-like - as if any aspect of her was to be complement of her Eyes.

Dissonance escaped you after the first beer. In the kitchen, chopping up variations of aged cheeses, Minji stood adjacent to you cutting up fruits.

‘You’re hilarious.’

‘You should’ve told me.’

‘Told you what? Who could ever predict that you’d say that?’ She giggled some more.

‘Do you think she minds?’

‘Haerin? Probably. A little. Most likely. She’s just like that. Shy. Quiet. Very unresponsive.’

‘I made it worse.’

‘Probably.’

‘Fuuuuck.’

‘Come on. Don’t worry. You earned points with me.’ Tipping your chin up. She pressed a thumb against your lip - letting you taste the sweet fruits she cut - and kissed you soft. ‘You brazen bull.’ 

‘God. I need you so bad.’

‘Baby. Haerin’s in the living room. There’s time for that later.’

‘Please stop entertaining the possibility.’

‘I want it as much as you.’

‘ - But?’

‘Mysterious disappearances in the middle of friendly reunions don’t exactly spell out cordial, babe… Hey - come on - get off me - ngh.’

—

Some arbitrarily large amounts of alcohol later; red-stained wine glasses, charcuterie board stained with a variety of acidic ideals; you find Minji’s lips again. In front of Haerin. 

It’s capillary force, as natural as a plant seeks the sun or water: her lips. Soft against yours. The fact that Haerin’s watching? Mortifying. Absolutely so. But it’s destiny (what can you do against that?) so you delve.

You weren’t privy to what Minji or Haerin thought, it was just Minji’s fingers pressing notes of sing-song motivation with her fingers on your sides, and, you were sure of it, totally so: Haerin’s eyes indelibly locked in on your exchange. 

Voyeur. Is that it? She was a voyeur? You ask of Minji through the antiquated language of kissing the top of her lip, entering her mouth, sharing spittle. And she responds, licks back, moans softly: that’s it, she’s a voyeur. Cruel Minji. 

You try to mangle out a look at what she was doing with all this eyespace (was she pressing against her moistness hidden in soft cloth?) (finger-deep in herself?) (And.. Did she want to join?) (are her toes pressing deep into her slippers, barely maintaining herself?). 

Minji punished your nape for the slightest indolence, tight fingers, pulling you into her velvet mouth - the slightest breath between you forbidden - the softest exertion ignored - she was, at this moment, a machine.

Minutes passed like this, Haerin’s soft clothes mushing together, the squelches of Minji’s lips. Almost suffocating, Minji let you go - breathing heavily with beads of condensation floating on her honey forehead - so fucking hot. 

Your eyes landed on Haerin, and first thing, her eyes dilated full, like two black holes: the concept of irises ridiculous. As you stared at Haerin - not sure if she was finger-deep in herself; the majority of her hidden under the table - Minji breathed a bristling breath on your neck, and in an even more suggestive breath: ‘It’ll be fun.’

No answer.

The both of you knew. 

You waited for Haerin’s expression, as did Minji, for confirmation, or the nil possibility of her running out right this moment.

And so: her hands landed on the zipper of her jacket, and revealed a faintly pink tank-top. God almighty.

‘Follow me.’ Minji broke the silence.

You followed Minji as she tore off one layer after another, then splaying herself along a bed - half-naked - that spared no space for three - well, space for three if one was on top of each other. 

Then Haerin entered last. This time, you had a better view of her: beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. 

‘Now kiss.’ 

‘What?’ The both of you say.

‘Kiss each other. Go on.’ 

‘Uh…’ You look at Haerin. She looks back. This time, the floor wasn't so interesting; her eyes were on you.

‘No hand holding.’ You heard from the background. And you laugh: it’s all so absurd, Minji’s half-naked on the bed, your girlfriend of years, chest low and tight, pupils dilated, watching you kiss her friend. 

Kissed. Again and again. Saliva moist against Haerin’s lips, against yours, hers and yours. She tasted faintly of menthol, strong mint, a trite sensation against the soft weaves of her tongue against yours. Every breath held her scent, every breath she took spread on your skin like a breath against cold glass - her soft, beautiful little exhales. 

You had glimpses, of Minji, hand tucked deep into her pants, little shallow shadow-changes on the groin of her pants - what could only be her fingering herself. Lip-bitten raw, huffing, moaning softly with eyes that didn’t leave you. You were hard, unimaginably hard, almost passing out - Haerin’s kissing you, her delicate palms caressing the bristled nape of yours, and Minji, sat on the bed, finger-fucking herself with hawk-eyed concentration.

You began shuffling towards the bed, with Haerin’s lips buried into your neck, sucking phantom hickeys onto your neck. 

And Minji made space for you, sat a little to the side, held the hem of her pants to take it off. 

‘Minji.’

‘Babe.’ Her hands wrapped around your waist, and softly, inch by inch, she pulled down your pants. She kissed your navel, almost worshipping you, before pulling down the last piece of cloth that hid your member. It was the loudest silence. Two pairs of dilated eyes, engaged on your swollen member begging to be taken care of (which, inevitably, will happen). 

First, Minji’s hand encircled around your member; a few rough strokes; then saliva mixed unevenly on her palm, a smoother gliding sensation; soft strokes, Haerin’s eyes tracked every soft stroke, and each stroke led her closer towards you. 

Minji added a few more dribbles of her spit on the head, then her hands moved faster, and smoother. By the next stroke, her mouth circled your head, then she swallowed your cock. ‘Fuck, Minji.’ She murmured a bit before going deeper, her tongue massaging your underside, her mouth leaving thin trails of sheening spit all over your cock. She choked, once or twice. 

Haerin came closer, eye-level with Minji, eye-level with your cock. She was kneeling, like worship, like Minji. She was about to suck your dick. Pony-tailed hair. Waiting patiently as Minji sucked you off into the depths of hell. 

Then: Minji was off your cock with a soft pop. ‘Such a big fucking dick. I thought I had to share.’ Haerin flushed again, ‘I thought you wouldn’t tell him.’

‘Him? He knows. Haerin. Just give it all up. Suck his dick. Worship it. I want you to.’

Perhaps that’s what did her in; you know, just the way her eyes locked on your spit-sheened cock. Her thin perfect fingers encircling your shaft, teasing the soft rigidity, the gliding sensation of Minji’s spit clinging, and she went up and down, up and down - squelch after squelch. Her first peck followed not long after, her tongue caressed the pre cum leaking. Her mouth encircled the head of your cock, and her cheeks hollowed. ‘Fuck.’ ‘Is it good babe?’ ‘Fuck yes.’ Instead of replying, Minji wrapped her tongue around one of your balls, sucking, teasing, worshipping your entirety. 

Your toes pressed firm against the mohair carpet. Haerin’s hands found themselves on your thighs as she took you deeper into her mouth.

The one who couldn’t even say a sentence to you, eyes stuck to the floor, now sucking your life out.

You began twitching; Minji under your balls, licking profanely; Haerin, taking you deep into her mouth, big eyes locked on to you, her perfumed hair yielding to your grasp. 

‘Get on the bed.’

The air dried blanket molded to their - now naked -  bodies. Golden light reflecting, blurring against their perfect skin. Two goddesses, placed parallel, eyeing you with an implacable lust. 

You entered Minji’s arms first. Who let out a sigh as you pressed your body weight against her; letting her hand curl against the back of your head; legs intertwining behind your back; and whispering Fuck Me.

Lining yourself up, you breathed one deep sigh into her neck. Before entering dead slow. Feeling every velvet fold of hers caressing your cock, soaking your cock in her tight pussy. The beautiful sounds she made. You pressed up to the hilt. ‘You’re so hard. Is it because Haerin’s watching?’ She giggled what she could, and lost what she had as you pumped into her one more time.

You smashed against her wet core again - making a wet slap - wringing out the most beautiful noises out of her. Slap, slap, slap, smashing your cock inside her, her perfectly molded pussy, wet with slick - some of it sticking and stringing along your shaft. 

‘Fuck me. Daddy. Fuck me.’

You desperately latch onto her mouth - exchanging a spit-stricken kiss as you fucked her over the cusp of her climax; Her loins shook, her body twitched, and she screamed euphoria into your mouth.

Through it all, Haerin pressed a palm against her pelvis - you had glimpses - her fingers worked along her delicate folds. She groaned, moaned, squealed. And as you hooked Minji's leg on your shoulder to show, exactly, how your dick went in undulations out of Minji’s wet core, Haerin came on her fingers. 

Then Minji cums on your cock. Breathing. Softly. Trying not to break anything you haven’t already broken, she pulls herself up, softly, head-level with you, ‘Now, there’s somebody waiting. Right there, and I need you to grant her wish.’

‘Being?’

‘You already know.’

You did. God almighty, you did. 

Haerin’s golden chest heaved as she recovered from the crest of her climax, and her eyes - god, her eyes - invited you over with a gaze that insisted upon itself. 

You start moving over, Minji’s palm sliding along your forearm - telling you that it’s alright, that she wants to watch, maybe even join. 

Apropos of all that happened before, you slid, softly, into Haerin’s arms. Your lips molding against hers; your hands pressing the soft flesh of her inner thigh, vis a vis open up; and from then on, you lined your slimy cock at her entrance, her glossy entrance, and entered.

She squealed, right in your ear. Held you tight like she might crumble to dust otherwise. 

Minji hobbled over, hovering just above, ‘Is it good, Haerin?’

She didn’t reply. Sounds of her slick moisture. Of her raggedy breaths broken by the thumb between her teeth. Large eyes that stayed closed for the most part. 

You latched onto her neck, still ravenously pressing yourself into Haerin. Her body recoiled against your latter strokes. Little wet sounds. Soft moans. Minji held her shoulders down as you went deeper. Right up to the hilt. That’s when she groaned, that’s when she really loosened up. Then, her body chased your cock. Gripped. Soft wet sounds turned blasphemous. As if slapping a body of water in a cave. Minji observed with delight, and kissed Haerin’s cheeks to encourage her to keep up.

You left her neck, kneeling in an upright position. Moving against her faster now, holding her soft waist: a handle. Back arching, she squealed another time - finally, reaching the cusp of her orgasm. Softly shaking under your touch. Her bristled skin - full of electric lust. Droplets passed along your shaft. But you didn’t stop. 

You pressed four fingers against her softly curved navel and a thumb on her clit.

Minji looked at you with a wry smile.

You fucked Haerin hard. To the point of muscle failure. Triceps blazing hot; thighs worn out; and a tuckered Haerin with sweat pressed god-like into her skin.

With cum seeping out of her pussy.

Wherein, Minji collected it all in her tongue. And kissed Haerin.

IMPORTANT UPDATE

[floodflameschosen]

"You're shaking." – "So are you." or "You're mine now. Say it." with Noah please? I can't decide which one so you choose🥹

CW: first time, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), lots of fluff and gentleness, best friends to lovers, open/happy ending.

🔞 nsfw, minors please dni.

You hadn’t meant to say anything.

It just slipped out one night while you curled up next to Noah on your couch, the battered old thing in the tiny apartment you’ve been sharing ever since you had to move away for college.

You still remember how terrified you were during your last year of high school, when the time to leave started closing in on you. You were terrified of what it would mean to step out into a new life, of what it would mean to leave Noah behind.

You didn’t know how to exist without him. You didn’t want to.

But just when you were trying to figure out how you were supposed to say goodbye, he looked at you with those steady, sure eyes and said: “What if I wanted to go with you? You know there’s nothing left for me in this deadbeat town, anyway. Not if you’re not here.”

You couldn’t believe it at first.

Couldn’t believe he would choose to follow you, to start over somewhere unfamiliar, just because he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else if it wasn’t with you. And maybe it was selfish, but when he suggested you move in together—split rent, save money—you said yes so fast you barely remembered to breathe.

God, you were so excited.

Excited to finally move away from home, to meet new people and have all the privacy and independence you’ve always dreamed of. Excited by the prospect of living with your best friend, of not having to say goodbye when night came and it was time to go home for dinner—as childish as the thought could be, it was still true.

Now, six months into classes, the excitement had started to wear off a little—not the living with Noah part of it, but everything else. Being in a bigger city, surrounded by people who all seemed so grown up, so sure of themselves, you couldn’t help but feel like you were falling behind.

They talked about internships and life plans like it were all so simple. They talked about hookups and dating and sex—and you couldn’t even pretend to keep up. You didn’t even have the basic experiences they all seemed to take for granted.

You just felt a little… small. Inadequate.

And somehow, in the haze of tiredness and cheap beer and the warm, safe weight of Noah beside you, the words just slipped out.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, sounding almost pouty. “Maybe I’ll just… pick someone tomorrow at the party. Get this whole virginity crap over with, at least.”

You felt him freeze beside you. The air shifted, like the room itself was suddenly holding its breath.

When too many seconds passed and he still hadn't said anything, you turned to look at him, and the way Noah was looking at you—like you’d just given him the worst news in the world—made your heart stutter.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said quietly. His voice was low, tight, so heavy it almost cracked.

“Why not? You did.” You tried to argue, all of a sudden feeling uncomfortable talking about this with him. Still, you kept going. “You lost it to some random girl at that high school party when you were like, eighteen, remember? Why would it be different for me?”

Noah’s jaw clenched as he looked away, and the arm he had draped around you tightened, pulling you closer for just a second before his fingers curled into a fist in the soft material of your shirt, like he physically needed something to hold on to.

He didn’t answer at first, just stared at the TV, but when his gaze finally snapped back to yours, there was something raw and fierce and possessive flickering in his brown eyes.

“Because it is different.” He said, his tone almost angry. Like it was that simple, just because he said so.

You opened your mouth to argue, but he wasn’t done.

“I didn’t think it through, alright? I was drunk and just went with it because it was there.” He shook his head, a rough, humorless breath of a laugh scraping out of him—and it made something inside you feel heavy.  “I was going through some shit back then, so I just thought maybe if I fucked someone else, I’d stop feeling so fucking alone.”

You blinked at him.

“Wait. What?” You asked, pushing yourself up a little, trying to meet his eyes. “You never told me you were going through anything back then. What's that about?”

Noah faltered for a second, eyes darting away from yours again, and for a moment, you saw something almost panicked flicker across his face.

“It’s not important,” he said quickly, dismissively, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your shirt. “It was a long time ago, and that's not the point. What I’m trying to say here is that you’re not me, and it doesn't have to be like that for you. You have options.”

You swallowed hard, heart picking up speed inside your chest at the words, the mention of another option.

“It didn't mean anything to me, and I don't want you to have the same shitty experience.” Noah’s voice softened, but there was still an edge of something rough in it. “You deserve to have your first time with someone who actually cares—someone who’ll notice if you’re scared, who’ll be patient. Someone who’s gonna make sure it’s good for you.”

A lump formed in your throat, because—this was it, wasn’t it? You knew exactly where this conversation was headed, and it terrified you. This was the moment, the tipping point where everything could change.

The safe route would be to dismiss it entirely—just go to bed and pretend this talk never happened, try to protect that friendship you’d always had with Noah. But as you sat there, your stomach fluttered with a warmth that twisted something inside you.

With a rush of heat flooding your veins, you made your choice, and instead of shying away from this, you opened your mouth and went down the scary route, voice barely a whisper when you asked him:

“And who would that someone be, Noah?”

For a long moment, Noah didn’t say anything.

He just stared at you, his eyes holding you in place as if he were searching for something. His breathing was measured, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself together, but you could see it, just barely—that quiet breaking point inside of him.

You weren’t sure what to do, or if you even could do anything at all to make this easier. The silence between you two stretched long enough that it almost felt suffocating, but you didn’t dare look away. You needed to know.

His voice was barely audible when it finally came, hoarse and vulnerable.

“Me.”

The word hung there between you, fragile and burning.

You stared at him—at the boy who had been your best friend for years, who had held you through every heartbreak, who knew every single one of your fears and dreams—and suddenly everything made too much sense.

The way he touched you sometimes, lingering like he didn’t mean to. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he held you, like he never intended to let go if you didn't make him.

Your heart raced in your chest, thumping against your ribs like it wanted to break free. Your mouth felt dry as you stared into his eyes and realized the truth that had been there all along:

It was Noah.

It had always been Noah.

That feeling you hadn’t named yet, the things unsaid, were now slipping through the cracks.

“If you’ll let me,” he added quietly when you took too long to speak, scared, voice breaking at the edges. “I could be that person.”

You didn’t know what to do with that realization, but you didn’t need to figure it out right away. Not with him. Not at this moment. And for once, you didn’t overthink it. You didn’t run.

Noah was still staring at you, eyes wide and vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to reject him, to make everything easier to walk away from. Instead, you reached out and threaded your fingers through his, squeezed.

“Okay,” you whispered, the words trembling in your chest. “You, then.”

Noah froze for the second time that night.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might’ve misheard you. But then his eyes darkened with something intense—relief, yes, but also something much stronger, something you haven't seen in him before.

He reached out for you, fingers brushing your cheek softly before cupping it, his touch a mix of reverence and disbelief.

“I trust you,” you said, stronger now, your voice steady, even if your heart felt anything but. “I want it to be you, if that's an option.”

His mouth opened, like he wanted to say more—anything, everything—but all that came out was a shaky, amazed chuckle. He closed his eyes for a split second, like he was gathering himself, before looking back at you with such intensity you almost couldn’t stand it.

“We’ll take it slow,” he promised, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything he was feeling. “As slow as you need.”

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand grounding you even as your mind raced. Turning your head slowly, you nuzzled against his palm, feeling the roughness of his skin against your cheek.

The tenderness of the moment overwhelmed you in the best of ways, the heat between you building, and with it, the longing you’d tried so hard to pretend wasn't there for all those years.

And then, barely above a whisper, you breathed out:

“I’m not so sure I want slow now.”

Noah’s whole body seemed to tighten at the words, as if he were holding back a storm. The groan that left his chest was low, almost helpless, and when he finally kissed you, it didn't feel like just a kiss—it was everything he’d been holding in, all the years of tension and want finally crashing over you both like a wave.

It started almost shaky—his lips molding over yours carefully, tasting, testing.

But when you sighed into him, when your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his hoodie and tugged him closer, it snapped something loose. Noah kissed you harder, one hand sliding around the back of your neck, the other spanning your waist, big and warm and there as he pulled you into him.

You shifted without a second thought, climbing into his lap, straddling him on the couch. Your bare thighs bracketed his hips, your t-shirt brushing against the skin of his arms where he’d shoved the sleeves of his hoodie up. He groaned softly into your mouth at the feeling of you settling over him like that—like you belonged there—and let his hands roam.

He caressed his way up your thighs, squeezing lightly, making you gasp. Over your hips, your waist, the small of your back—exploring, learning, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you.

You gasped louder against his mouth when the tip of his fingers slipped under your shirt, barely skimming over your heated skin, and he shuddered, breaking the kiss just long enough to look at you.

“Tell me if you want me to stop…” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, already breathing hard.

“I don’t. I won't.” You whispered, breathless, and kissed him again, deeper this time.

After that, it got heated fast—hands everywhere, breathing uneven, small needy sounds spilling from you without thought.

Noah’s hoodie was bunched up between you, and you tugged at it blindly, a frustrated noise crawling up your throat because you wanted it off, making him chuckle against your mouth before helping you pull it over his head and toss it aside.

You flattened your palms against his now bare chest—feeling the steady thud of his heart, the solid warmth of him—and he squeezed your hips like he was grounding himself, trying to keep control, to be careful.

But you didn’t want careful, so you pressed your body closer, hips rolling without even meaning to, grinding your center against the soft front of his basketball shorts. You could feel his already hard length pressing against you through the thin material, and when you hesitantly grazed your fingers over the fabric, that seemed to do the trick—Noah groaned, swiftly wrapping his arms around you and lifting you effortlessly off the couch along with him.

You squeaked in surprise, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, arms around his neck, but he just chuckled—a breathless, beautiful sound—as he carried you down the hallway. Catching your gaze, his lips curved into that crooked smile that always made your breath catch.

“Bedroom,” he muttered before ducking down and pressing his soft lips to your throat, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses there as he walked. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on a couch.”

Noah kicked the bedroom door open and crossed over to his bed in two quick strides, laying you down gently, like you were something breakable, something precious. And when he climbed over you, bracing his weight carefully so he wouldn't crush you, and looked down with those stormy eyes of his—so full of want, so full of need—you just knew.

You were never getting over this, never getting over him.

You didn’t want to.

Noah just stayed there, hovering over you for a breathless moment—his chest heaving, arms trembling slightly from how hard he was holding himself back. You reached up without hesitation, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging gently on the soft strands.

The reaction was immediate: he groaned, low, borderline broken, and leaned into your touch like he couldn’t help himself—like you were gravity and he had no choice but to fall.

His hand reached up and closed around your wrist, gentle but firm, and he pulled your hand from his hair to bring it to his mouth instead, pressing a slow, lingering kiss into your palm, his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough and tender all at once.

“So are you,” you whispered, accompanied by a shaky little laugh, heart slamming against your ribs.

That made him smile—small, a little unsteady. Like he was just as nervous about this as you were. He turned his head and kissed your wrist next, lingering there for a moment longer before finally letting your hand go.

And then he was leaning back in, sealing his mouth to yours again—slower this time, deeper—like he wanted to taste every single breath you gave him. His hands started moving again, reverent and hungry, skimming down your sides, over your hips, down to squeeze the soft skin of your thighs.

When his mouth finally broke from yours, he didn’t go far. He just kept kissing a path across your jaw, down your neck, leaving a few more warm, open-mouthed kisses that made your whole body arch toward him, desperate for more.

“You feel so good, baby… so soft,” he murmured against your throat, his voice low and raspy, like the words were being dragged out of him.

You whimpered his name, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Tell me if I do something you don't like, yeah?” He said softly but firmly. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, needing to touch. “At any point, you tell me if you don't like something, and I’ll stop. I mean it.”

Your heart cracked wide open for him.

“I trust you.” You whispered, eyes shining as you nodded and reached forward, pulling him back.

Something flickered across his face at that, and then he was moving again. His hands slipped under your t-shirt fully this time, fingertips ghosting up your ribcage, and you gasped at the feeling of his palms against your bare skin. Noah eased your shirt up, pausing with a questioning look, and all you could do was nod again, breathless, heart in your throat.

Carefully, he peeled it over your head and tossed it aside, leaving your upper body bare to his gaze—his eyes darkened instantly, raking over you with a reverence that made your skin prickle. For a long moment, he just stared, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he needed to burn the sight of you into memory.

“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath, and then he ducked his head down, kissing along your collarbone, giving it his full attention before trailing lower.

You gasped when his mouth closed around your nipple—gentle, teasing—his tongue flicking slow, delicious circles over the sensitive skin. He gave it a soft, careful bite before soothing it with his tongue, pulling a broken little sound from you that made him groan against your chest. Moving to the other side, Noah gave it just as much attention, his big hands holding your ribs like he was scared you might slip away if he didn’t anchor you, if he didn't hold you down.

You arched up into him instinctively, needing more, needing everything, and Noah’s hands slid lower, gripping your waist, kneading the flesh there like he couldn’t get enough of you.

His fingers found the hem of your shorts at some point, toying with the waistband as he pressed his mouth lower, kissing a slow, hot path down your stomach, the scruff on his jaw dragging against your skin in a way that made you shiver. When he reached your lower belly, just above where your shorts sat, he nipped softly at the sensitive skin there, earning a whimper from you.

That’s when Noah stilled, mouth still pressed to your skin, and looked up at you through heavy, hooded eyes—his gaze burning. One of your hands threaded into his hair again, tugging lightly, and the way he closed his eyes at the feeling made your heart stumble. Wordlessly, you nodded once his eyes set back on you, giving him the permission he so clearly needed.

He kissed your stomach again, reverently, before hooking his fingers under the waistband and carefully, slowly, tugging your shorts down—inch by excruciating inch—exposing more of you to his hungry eyes. Once he pulled your shorts off and tossed them somewhere over his shoulder without taking his eyes off you, you were left trembling beneath him, stripped down to just your underwear, and Noah looked at you like you were a miracle he didn’t deserve.

You felt his gaze like a physical thing, heavy and hot, making your skin prickle and your breath catch in your throat over and over.

Slowly, he ran his hands up your legs—starting at your ankles, dragging his palms over your calves, your knees, your thighs, until he was cradling your hips, thumbs stroking circles into your skin.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” He rasped, voice shaking, raw with emotion. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

And the way he said it—not just like he wanted you, but like he worshipped you—made your whole body ache with need, the throbbing between your legs almost unbearable by now.

You couldn’t stop the way your body shifted restlessly, legs spreading just that much wider, silently begging for more, needing him. It made Noah chuckle softly—like he could feel the way you were unraveling for him—and then he was lowering himself again, dragging the tip of his tongue just above the waistband of your panties, from one hipbone to the other.

You whimpered, and your hands found his hair again, tugging him closer without thinking.

Noah groaned deep in his chest at your touch, and his hands slid higher, smoothing up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist, your ribs, until they found the swell of your breasts, squeezing gently. He paused, and looking up at you through his lashes, he grinned—slow, wicked—and moved lower to mouth over the damp fabric of your panties, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right against the heat of you.

You gasped, arching off the bed with a choked sound, and Noah groaned again, deeper this time, and kept going—kissing, licking, sucking, teasing through the thin barrier until you were clutching his hair in both hands, tugging hard, trembling.

“Fuck,” he moaned quietly against you, voice low and hungry. He nuzzled his face into you like it was the most natural thing, breathing you in, already addicted. “Oh, baby… you’re already soaking wet for me.”

Another slow, filthy kiss through the fabric, so warm it felt like burning. Another whimper ripped from your throat.

He lifted his gaze to meet yours again—eyes dark and glazed—and while one hand continued to tease your breasts, the other slid up your thigh, thumb stroking along the sensitive crease where your hip met your core, making you shiver.

“Been thinking about this for so long,” Noah rasped, kissing the damp cotton again, mouthing at it lazily. “Thinking about you like this. How fucking sweet you’d taste.”

You couldn’t stop the helpless little whimpers spilling from your lips, your hips rolling instinctively against Noah’s mouth as he kissed you through your underwear—slow, purposeful, almost torturous.

Your hands tightened in his hair yet again, needing something to ground yourself to, your heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

“Noah,” you gasped, the sound broken, desperate, and you felt him smile against you—the smug curve of his mouth pressed right where you needed him most.

“Patience, baby,” he murmured, breath hot against you. “Gonna take my time with you.”

You tried to bite back a moan, but the second he sucked gently at the damp fabric again, your thighs trembled around his head and the sound tore free from your throat. You felt dizzy, drunk on the feeling of him, every nerve in your body sparking to life under his touch.

“Noah, please,” you whimpered, not even sure what you were asking for anymore—just more, just him, just now.

He hummed, pleased, and the vibration sent a sharp bolt of pleasure shooting through you.

“You sound so pretty when you beg,” he said, and your face flushed so hot it nearly burned.

But you didn’t stop—you couldn’t. Not when he slipped two fingers under the soaked fabric, finally pushing it aside, and leaned in to taste you properly, giving you a long, slow lick—flat and firm, from your entrance to your clit—and so good it made your whole body jolt. 

You arched up into him, crying out his name again, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was clutch his hair, hips rocking helplessly against his tongue as your voice broke again.

“Don’t stop, Noah, please—don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause.

As he kept tasting, taking, he groaned against you like he was the one falling apart, sucking your clit gently into his mouth and teasing it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs shook around his head.

“Fuck,” he muttered between kisses and licks, voice hoarse, lips slick with you. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

His free hand still around your breast started squeezing again, teasing your nipple with his thumb while his mouth worked you over relentlessly, eating you out like he was starved. You whimpered something broken and incoherent, tugging at his hair hard enough to sting, nails scratching his scalp. Noah just hummed against your clit as he enjoyed it, sending another ripple of pleasure straight through you.

“That’s it, don’t hold back.” He encouraged, tongue teasing you mercilessly, “Let me hear you. Let me feel you.”

And you did—because with the way he was worshiping you, savoring you, there was no way you could stay quiet, no way you could survive this slow, devastating pleasure without falling apart in his mouth.

You were already spiraling toward the edge, your body tensing and shaking and aching for release—and the way he kept murmuring sweet, filthy things against your skin only dragged you closer, unraveling every last bit of you.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

It was perfect.

You were so close—so close—your whole body tightening, hips stuttering against Noah’s mouth, and then a sharp, involuntary clench ripped through you.

Noah felt it—you knew he did, because he groaned low in his chest—and then he pulled back.

You sobbed out a desperate sound, trembling beneath him, but before you could even form the words to beg, he was hooking his fingers into the waistband of your soaked panties, finally dragging them down your legs and tossing them somewhere across the room.

“Shh, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as he soothed you. “I’ve got you.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, still shivering from the edge he’d left you dangling from—and then he was crawling up your body, covering you again with his weight, kissing you deep and slow. You whimpered against his mouth at the taste—your taste—on his tongue, and the filthy intimacy of it made your head spin.

He swallowed every broken sound you made, one of his hands cradling your jaw, the other braced beside your head, arm trembling slightly as he supported his weight, grinding his hips down against you.

You gasped into his mouth when you felt him—hard and so warm, even through the thin material of his shorts, pressing right against your core.

“Can you feel that?” Noah whispered against your lips, his voice low and hoarse. “Can you feel how hard you make me, baby?”

He rolled his hips again, harder this time, deliberately, and you whimpered helplessly.

“Do you get now just how fucking crazy you make me?”

Your hands scrambled at him, fingers digging into skin, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more.

“Noah,” you breathed, a pleading note in your voice you didn’t even try to hide.

He kissed you again, devouring—and rocked against you one more time, dragging yet another choked little cry from your lips.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, your throat, retracing a path he’d already explored. “And you’re mine, aren't you? You’re mine.”

You nodded frantically, your body straining toward him. Noah chuckled softly at your eagerness and kissed down your chest again, lavishing attention on every inch of you until he reached the curve of your stomach.

He paused there, hands sliding down your trembling thighs, gently spreading you open wider for him.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with need. “Gonna stretch you out on my fingers real nice now, get you ready for me.”

Your breath hitched loudly at his words, a rush of heat surging through you as you watched him settle between your legs again—this time with a kind of determined adoration that made your heart ache.

Noah pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, closer to where you needed him. And then he lowered his mouth to you again.

You gasped, hands flying to his hair like before, fingers curling tight when you felt the first slow swipe of his tongue over your aching core again, the wet muscle parting your slick folds.

You barely had time to process the overwhelming feeling of his warm tongue directly against you again before you felt one of his hands joining in, his fingers teasing lightly at your entrance, slick and desperate for him.

“Can I?” he asked against your clit, mouth still working you over in soft, devastating licks.

“Yes,” you gasped, tugging his hair, needing him, needing everything.

Noah moaned, and slowly pushed one thick finger inside you, the sensation making you whimper and arch into him.

“So tight, baby.” He muttered brokenly when you clenched around his digit, kissing the inside of your thigh like he needed to ground himself, too. “So fucking perfect.”

He moved slowly, working you open with careful, patient strokes of his finger, all while his mouth never stopped—licking, sucking, devouring you like he couldn’t get enough. When he thought you were ready, he slid in a second finger, stretching you wider, deeper, and you cried out for the millionth time, hips rolling down against him, chasing the friction you craved.

“That’s it,” Noah groaned. “Take it, princess. Gotta get you ready for me.”

You couldn’t even form words anymore, your whole world narrowing down to the feeling of him—his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, the heat of his breath, the filthy praises falling from his lips between long strokes of his tongue.

All the while, you could feel it—the slow, steady build of pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you, ready to snap. You were so close again, completely at his mercy, and you didn’t want it any other way.

Noah felt it, too—of course, he felt it—the way your walls fluttered helplessly around his fingers as they fucked in and out of you, the way your thighs clamped around his head as if trying to keep him there forever.

“Go on, baby,” he rasped against you, voice thick and breathless, hand moving faster. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

Then he crooked his fingers, hitting something inside that almost made you scream, and that was all it took. You shattered completely, reduced to nothing more than a whimpering, broken mess as pleasure tore through you like a tidal wave.

Your whole back arched off the bed, your fingers fisting tight in Noah’s hair as he kept going, working you through every last pulse, every desperate little aftershock. You were vaguely aware of Noah moaning, too, while he licked all over your core, around his fingers still stretching you, like he was addicted to the way you tasted, the way you fell apart for him.

You barely registered when he finally pulled back, kissed his way up your shaking body, and hovered over you—his face flushed, his mouth and chin slick from you, his eyes dark with something wild.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered against your lips, kissing you slowly, deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue again. You whimpered into his mouth, still shaking, still high from your climax.

Noah kissed you again and again as he cradled your face in his hands like you were something fragile and precious, patient as he waited for you to come back down from your high.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured when your breathing wasn't so loud anymore, resting his forehead against yours.

You nodded, still breathless but less so now, still blinking back the tears of overwhelming pleasure pooling behind your eyes.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Fuck, I’m more than okay.”

Noah smiled against your mouth—small, crooked, so full of love. He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you—and brushed a stray strand of hair off your forehead, his thumb stroking your cheek in soothing, grounding circles.

“Do you wanna stop here for tonight?” He asked, voice low and careful, gentle with the kind of patience that always made your heart ache. “We can, if you need to. We don’t have to do everything all at once. I’m not going anywhere.”

You blinked up at him, still flushed, trembling, and felt panic bloom in your chest at the thought of stopping now, at the thought of not feeling him completely.

“No—no, please,” you rushed out, voice cracking, hands sliding desperately up his arms, his shoulders. “I want you, I want all of you, Noah. Please.”

Noah’s eyes softened, so full of emotion that it almost hurt to look at him.

“Hey, hey, it's okay,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours for a second before soothing you with a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your mouth. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. We’ll do it, okay? I want it too, princess. I want you so fucking bad.”

He said it like a confession before kissing you again, slow and lingering, like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn't achingly hard and craving relief himself. You could feel him, though—hot and hard through his basketball shorts, pressing against you—and a frustrated little sound broke from you because it wasn’t enough, the layers between you feeling unbearable.

Without second-guessing, you let your hands slide down his bare chest—hot and solid under your touch—until you were pulling impatiently at the waistband of his basketball shorts with clumsy little tugs.

Noah pulled back just enough to look at you, a soft smirk tugging at his mouth, his eyes dark with heat.

“You want them off me, princess?” He teased, voice rough and sweet all at once, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

“Yes.” Your face burned, but you refused to look away—you nodded, all flushed and desperate, and whispered, “I—I want to see you.”

Something about that—the honesty of it, the way your voice trembled—made the teasing fall right off his face.

Noah sat back on his heels between your spread legs, kneeling there, before he pushed his shorts down slowly, the fabric sliding over his thighs until it bunched at his knees. He kicked them off the bed without ever standing up, leaving him in just his tight black underwear.

The sight of him made your whole body clench, heat flooding your core all over again.

His cock strained against the thin fabric, thick and heavy and leaking, leaving a dark wet spot at the tip, and your mouth parted at the sight, a needy little gasp slipping from your lips before you could even think to hold it back.

Noah’s smirk returned, lazy and devastating.

“See what you do to me, baby?” He rasped, palming himself through the thin material, deliberately showing off for you. He stroked himself lazily, the pressure making his hips jerk slightly, a low groan rumbling out of him.

Your entire body ached at the sight, heat flooding between your legs, making you shift restlessly on the bed. Noah watched you squirm, his hand still working himself through the cotton, and tilted his head slightly, voice rough with need, but still amused.

“Is this enough for you?” He murmured. “Or do you wanna see more?”

“More,” you whispered immediately, almost desperate.

He smiled again, much too pleased, and reached for the waistband of his underwear, fingers hooking into the sides. But before he could push it down, you shot forward, sitting up fast enough to make his eyes widen in surprise for a second.

Your hands closed around his wrists, stopping him.

“Let me,” you whispered, voice shaking with how badly you needed this, needed him, needed to touch, to see.

For a moment, Noah just stared at you, like you’d knocked the breath clean out of his lungs. Then he nodded, slowly, amazed, his hands falling away, surrendering himself completely to you.

“Go ahead,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m all yours, princess.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and hooked them into the waistband of his underwear. Noah stayed perfectly still—watching you with that reverent look you’ve seen so many times tonight, like you were something sacred—as you slowly peeled the last barrier down his hips, revealing him inch by agonizing inch.

You sucked in a shaky breath when his cock finally sprung free and you saw him fully—thick, flushed, perfect. Your mouth watered at the sight of him, and Noah groaned at the way your eyes visibly darkened, pupils blown, his cock twitching slightly under your hungry gaze.

"Jesus, baby," he rasped, voice unsteady. "You’re gonna kill me."

You didn’t even realize you were biting your lip while you stared at him until he reached out, brushing his thumb over your mouth, tugging it free with a soft, coaxing touch.

"You don’t have to be nervous," he murmured, so gentle, so patient. "We’ll go slow. I promise I'll take care of you."

"I know," you breathed, meeting his gaze. "I—I’m not nervous. I just..." Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t lie. Not now, not to him. "I want you so bad, Noah."

Something inside Noah snapped at the confession. His hands slid back to your body, pulling you against him as he kissed you hard—hungry—his cock pressing hot and heavy against your bare stomach.

He swallowed every whimper, every soft little moan you made, kissing you so deep it felt like you’d never be able to catch your breath again. His hands were everywhere—roaming your body, tracing every curve, every dip, like he couldn’t get enough of any part of you.

One of them slid down to your ass, gripping you firmly and pulling you tighter against him before Noah ground his cock against your stomach as he kissed down your neck. The weight of him there made your insides flip, heat pooling between your legs as your thighs tried to press together instinctively.

You couldn’t help it—you kept glancing down between your bodies, your face flushing deeper the longer you stared. You didn’t have much to go on—no frame of reference, not really. You’d never seen a dick in person before, let alone had one pressed against you like this, but Noah looked big.

Thick, too—perfectly thick. The kind of heavy weight that made your breath stutter in your throat, made you ache to feel him inside you even though you had no idea how you’d possibly take him.

Noah must’ve noticed where your gaze kept flickering, because he let out a soft, breathless chuckle against your neck.

“You’re gonna make me lose my mind if you keep looking at me like that, baby.” He teased, his voice a low rasp as he nipped at your skin. His hand squeezed your ass again, pulling you closer so you could feel every inch of him pressed right up against your belly, precum dampening the skin.

You swallowed hard, pulse pounding in your ears as you dragged your eyes back up to his, cheeks burning.

“I just—” Your voice cracked, and you bit your lip before forcing the words out, quiet and breathless. “I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“Like what?” He asked, tone soft but still dripping with amusement as he pressed a trail of kisses along your jaw again, following it up until his lips were lingering just below your ear.

Your breath stuttered, embarrassment and arousal tangling together when you whispered, “You’re just… really big. I guess.”

Noah cursed softly at that, his hips grinding against you harder, teeth grazing your skin as his grip on you tightened, the motion sending sparks of heat straight through your core.

You chuckled shyly at his reaction, cheeks burning hotter, but couldn’t stop yourself from looking down again—your curiosity overpowering the lingering nervousness fluttering in your chest.

You hesitated for half a second, and then, in the smallest, breathiest voice, you whispered, "Can I touch you?"

Noah’s whole body jerked—a rough sound breaking free from his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or moan or cry.

"Fuck," he hissed. "Yeah, baby. God, yes. Please."

He let himself fall back a little, settling more heavily on his heels as he knelt between your thighs, giving you the space, the invitation.

Your fingers still trembled a little as you reached out, but the moment you wrapped your hand around him—finally—a sharp, broken moan tore out of Noah’s throat, hips giving an involuntary little twitch at the first brush of your hand.

His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, the silky skin stretched tight over the thickness of him, pulsing faintly against your touch. You stroked him slowly, experimentally, mesmerized by the way the muscles in his stomach tensed, the way his breath hitched with every little movement.

He was—God, he was beautiful. Thick and long, with a perfect flushed tip that leaked precum, making your palm slippery as you slowly started to move your hand up and down a bit more confidently.

Noah’s head dropped back slightly, his mouth falling open in a choked-off groan. His hands fisted in the sheets beside your hips, like he was physically stopping himself from doing something reckless.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, wonderingly, tightening your fingers a little just to see his stomach twitch in response.

“Fuck, baby—” he gasped, his voice a wreck. He cracked his eyes open, looking at you through heavy lids, pupils blown wide. “Jesus, princess, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You bit your lip again, utterly fascinated by the way his body responded to even the lightest touch from you—every little gasp, every shudder, every twitch of his hips.

Encouraged, you shifted closer, wrapping your other hand around the base of him too, stroking him with slow, careful movements, getting bolder as you watched him come undone. Noah growled low in his throat, his hips jerking helplessly into your hands, his entire body tensing.

“Fucking hell, baby, you keep doing that,” he panted, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, “and I’m not gonna last long enough to be inside you.”

You tightened your fingers a little at the praise, dragging your hands up and down in slow, careful strokes, watching the way his cock twitched and leaked under your touch. Your mouth watered for a second time at the sight, a wave of arousal crashing through you so strong it made your lower abdomen ache.

You blinked up at him, heart stuttering—and then, reckless with the heady rush of control you had over him, you whispered, “Can't have that, can we? Need you to fuck me. Want to know what you feel like stretching me open.”

You could see the moment Noah snapped.

He surged forward, kissing you hard, swallowing the whimper that escaped your lips. His hands slid back down your body, urgent now, needy—one guiding your hips back down against the bed, the other gripping the back of your thigh, hitching it up around his waist as he settled over you.

“Tell me you’re ready,” he breathed against your mouth, voice hoarse and shaking, pleading. “Tell me you want this.”

“I’m ready,” you gasped, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Please, Noah—I want you. I need you.”

He groaned like you’d just handed him the world—and then he was reaching between you, lining himself up, the thick, leaking head of his cock sliding through the slickness between your thighs, making you both shudder.

But just as he pressed a little harder, enough to make you gasp, Noah squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to stop. He let out a shuddering breath against your lips, almost in pain.

“Wait—wait a second, baby,” he rasped. His hand slipped away from you, fumbling blindly toward the nightstand. “I need to grab a condom.”

“No,” you gasped immediately, your hands flying to his chest, stopping him. “No, please—I don’t want one.”

He blinked down at you, stunned.

“Baby—fuck—I don’t wanna risk anything, and I don’t wanna—”

“I’m on the pill,” you rushed out, desperate. “Ever since we moved here I've been on the pill, I swear. I just—” You swallowed hard, flushing. “I want to feel you. All of you. Please, Noah. I want to feel it when you come inside me.”

Noah made a sound you could only describe as wrecked, his whole body shaking above you, hands trembling against your skin as he tried, tried, to hold on to the last shreds of his sanity.

“Jesus Christ, princess,” he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You kissed the side of his head, wrapping your arms around him, feeling the way he was already giving in. He always gave in to you.

“Please,” you whispered again, right against his ear. “I want all of you. I want you to make a mess of me.”

That was it.

Noah let out a harsh, broken sound, and then he was lining himself up again, nudging his hips forward, the thick head of his cock pressing in slowly—just a fraction before he froze, a strangled groan ripping from his chest.

The heat of you, the way you squeezed around just the tip of him, nearly ended him right then and there.

“Fucking hell,” he choked, voice broken. “You’re so tight.”

You whimpered, clawing at his hips instinctively as the thick stretch made you burn and sting, pleasure and pain knotting together deep in your belly. He felt huge inside you—too much and somehow not enough all at once.

Noah immediately stilled, chest heaving against yours, his hands finding your hips to anchor you—and himself—gently stroking over your skin in soothing, grounding motions.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered against your forehead, lips pressed to the already damp skin. His voice trembled with restraint. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. The pain won't last, I promise. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You nodded, desperate tears prickling the corners of your eyes as you tried to relax, breathing hard against his chin as you angled your head up. You didn’t want him to stop—you just needed a second, needed to get used to it.

Noah kissed you then, deep and soft, while he held himself there—barely inside you—until he felt the iron tightness in your muscles start to ease, your body slowly learning to open for him.

“Good girl,” he murmured into your mouth, voice breaking. He brushed his thumb over your trembling hipbone, breathing you in like a prayer. “You feel so good—so perfect around me, baby.”

You whimpered again, nails digging into the small of his back, desperate for more even through the burn.

“More,” you breathed. “Please, Noah—more.”

He let out a shuddering groan, forehead pressing against yours—and then he pushed in deeper, just an inch more, stretching you open around the thick weight of him.

You gasped, a sharp, choked sound against his mouth as the sting sharpened—your walls fluttering desperately around him—and Noah immediately kissed you again, swallowing your sounds, his whole body shaking from the effort it took to stay gentle, to stay slow.

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered raggedly against your lips. “You’re taking me so good, though. Just a little more, I promise. Here, let me—”

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit with careful fingers, and he started circling it in slow, featherlight strokes—barely there at first, coaxing, soothing, trying to pull you back into pleasure.

You gasped again, but this time the sound was softer, needier. The burn didn’t vanish completely, but it dulled, blurred, eclipsed by the sweet rush of pleasure blooming low in your belly as Noah worked you open with his cock, his hands, his words—every part of him devoted to making it good for you.

“That’s it,” he rasped, voice shaking. His forehead rested against yours as he rocked his hips ever so slightly, still shallow, still slow. “That’s my good girl.”

You moaned, clenching helplessly around him again, and Noah nearly lost it—gritting his teeth, fighting to keep control as he felt your body start to yield to him, start to welcome him inside.

He slid deeper again, hips rocking before giving you time to adjust, to breathe through it, to feel every inch of him. And when he finally bottomed out, when his hips met the insides of your thighs and he was fully buried inside you, both of you just clung to each other—panting, trembling, overwhelmed.

You whimpered after a while, hips shifting instinctively beneath him, desperate for more, for him to move, to do something.

“You can move,” you breathed, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging, scratching his scalp. “Please, Noah. I need you to—”

But he shook his head, forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shuddering like he was hanging on by a thread.

“I—fuck, I need a second,” he rasped, voice breaking apart. “You feel so good, baby. Too good. If I move right now, I’ll lose it.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, running your hands through his hair now just to soothe him.

“How long’s it been for you?” You whispered curiously, smiling against his mouth.

Noah pulled back a little—just enough to look you in the eye—and what you saw there made your smile falter.

The rawness. The fear. The love.

It was too much for him to hide.

“Since I was eighteen,” he said hoarsely.

You blinked, stunned, your heart stumbling.

“What?” You breathed, sounding as surprised as you felt. “But—”

“My first time was my only time,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours like he needed the contact, like he needed you close enough to survive this.

You stared at him, struggling to make the dots connect through the haze in your mind.

Eighteen.

He was twenty-two now.

Only once, and nothing since.

Because—?

You barely dared to ask. Your voice cracked when you whispered:

“Why?”

He exhaled a broken little sound, closing his eyes for a second like he didn’t even know how to explain it. Then he opened them again, and you nearly drowned in the weight of his gaze.

“Because it wasn’t you,” he said simply, helplessly. “I tried, okay? I thought it would help drown out the way I felt about you.” His thumb brushed your cheek, reverent. “But it didn’t. It just made it worse. It made me realize I didn’t want anyone else. Couldn’t want anyone else.”

Your throat closed up, your eyes stinging with sudden, overwhelming tears. The full force of it crashed into you all at once—

All these years. All this time.

And he’d always loved you. Even when you hadn’t known. Even when you hadn’t seen it. Even when you pretended not to.

A shaky sob bubbled up in your chest, but you didn't want to cry, not now, not like this—so you kissed him, kissed him like you were trying to pour all the shattered pieces of yourself into him, your hands frantic against his bare skin, grabbing, gripping, squeezing.

“Noah,” you whispered, a broken plea, barely able to speak, to breathe. “Please, I—I’m yours, I’ve always been yours, and I need—”

He didn’t answer, because he didn’t have to. He knew exactly what you meant, and he gave you what you needed, like he's always done.

Only this time was so much better, because there was nothing else between you now. Nothing else in the world.

Noah drew back, just enough to pull his hips away—and then he pushed forward, sinking into you again with slow, reverent force, filling you until your back arched and a sharp gasp punched from your lungs.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his back, and he groaned against your mouth—deep, guttural, broken—as he moved in you, moved with you, careful, patient, trying so desperately to give you time, to give you everything.

He rocked his hips once, twice, three times, and you whimpered, wrapping your legs tighter around him like you couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

“More,” you gasped. “Noah, please—more.”

He kissed you again, messy and breathless, and you could feel how badly he wanted to give it to you, how hard he was holding himself back just for you.

And then, when you tilted your hips to meet him, when you whispered one more desperate, wrecked, “Please” against his lips—he finally gave in.

Noah’s rhythm deepened, the slow roll of his hips picking up force, each thrust dragging another helpless sound from your throat. The ache, the stretch, the sweet friction—it was overwhelming, it was everything. It set every nerve ending alight, made your fingers scrabble at his shoulders, made your body arch into his with reckless need.

“You feel—” he choked out against your ear, losing the words as his pace quickened, as your walls fluttered around him and your moans filled the space between your bodies. “Jesus, baby—you feel so good. So fucking good.”

You couldn’t even answer—you could only hold onto him, feeling him drive into you harder, deeper, until every thought dissolved. The feeling of him inside you was almost too much, too good, driving you higher with every deep, perfect thrust.

And there was only him, only this, only forever.

Noah’s hand slid between you, finding your clit again, rubbing tight, desperate circles that made you cry out, made your body clamp down around him without warning.

“Fuck,” Noah choked out, voice breaking against your mouth. “You’re mine. You’re fucking mine.”

You were—you always had been—and the way you clung to him, the way your body responded, said it louder than any words ever could.

“I’m not gonna last long if you keep squeezing me like that,” he groaned, hips stuttering as you tightened again, your body greedy for him, for all of him, the pleasure spiraling fast and out of control.

You whimpered, threading your fingers through his hair, dragging him closer, needing him deeper, needing everything.

He shifted his weight slightly, pulling one of your legs up higher around his waist, and the new angle made you keen—made him press against that devastating spot inside you with every roll of his hips.

“Right there?” he murmured, smiling against the skin of your cheek when you writhed beneath him.

“Yes, yes—oh my god, please—” You gasped, voice wrecked and high and desperate. “I’m—I’m so close, I can’t—”

“Me too,” Noah groaned, picking up his pace now, hips slapping into yours harder, faster. “You feel so good, baby—fucking made for me.”

He shifted his hips, grinding against you in a way that made the pleasure snap like a live wire through your entire body—and then you broke.

Your orgasm ripped through you so hard it nearly blinded you, your whole body locking up tight around him, shuddering, trembling, sobbing his name.

“Fuck, that's it, that's it, pretty girl,” he rasped, forehead pressing against yours, the muscles of his back flexing under your palms as he fucked you through it, driving into you faster, chasing his own high. “Fucking come for me, baby. Make a mess on my cock.”

Noah cursed low and broken against your skin, thrusting deep one last time before he lost it too—burying himself to the hilt as he came, hot and overwhelming, the sound of your name on his lips like a prayer as he spilled inside you.

You clung to each other through it all, panting, shaking, completely wrecked—completely his.

When you were both done, neither of you moved for a while.

Noah stayed buried deep inside you, pressed as close as he could get, breathing hard, holding you like he never wanted to let go. His hands were everywhere again—petting your hair, tracing your spine, rubbing slow, soothing circles over your hips.

“You okay?” He finally whispered, voice hoarse, broken with tenderness.

You nodded against his shoulder, still trembling, still trying to breathe him back into your lungs.

“I’m perfect,” you whispered back. “Because of you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the way he did it—like you were everything, nothing but unfiltered adoration in his eyes—made you feel like you were simultaneously suffocating and coming up for air.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you, murmuring soft apologies at the sting, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness. But before you could even miss him, Noah was gathering you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, covering every inch of your bare skin he could reach with adoring, lingering kisses.

You both stayed like that, tangled up in each other, sweaty and shaky and wrecked, until your heartbeats finally slowed, until the only sound was your quiet breathing and the soft brush of Noah’s lips against your hair.

“I love you,” he whispered against your temple, so soft you almost thought you imagined it.

But you heard it—you heard it, and you knew, without any fear or doubt or hesitation, that you loved him too. And when you whispered it back, he pulled you impossibly closer, as if he was stitching you into his soul.

You fell asleep like that—wrapped up in Noah, wrapped up in love—knowing deep down that nothing would ever be the same again.

You couldn't have been more okay with that.

hiii, v! 🤗 i chose the "you're shaking" – "so are you" dialogue prompt for this one 'cause nobody's asked for that one yet and i wanted to try it hehe. also, i'm sorry it took me this long to post your request, but i got so carried away with this one and it turned out way bigger than i planned, so it took me a moment there to finish lol. i hope the 9.3k words of pure fluff and smut made up for the delay here. hope you enjoyed this, friend! x

[chuxmy]

Can u advice 2 it was bomb💣💣maybe continue👉👈

Advice.. II

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re alone. And this time, he doesn’t just walk away.

Warnings: Implied stalking/following

☜︎ Last Next ☞︎

The week had been quiet, too quiet. You hadn’t told the guys about your strange run-in with Seongje outside the corner store. Not because you were scared, but because… you didn’t even know how to explain it.

What would you say?

Hey, that guy who threatened to break our noses? Yeah, he cornered me the next day and said he liked my mouth.

You could already hear Juntae freaking out, Gotak offering to fight him, and Sieun staring blankly like he already knew something you didn’t.

So you kept it to yourself.

It was late.

The city had gone soft at the edges, lights glowing warm through hazy windows, the sharp daytime noise replaced by a low murmur of cars and the occasional clink of bottles from a convenience store down the block. Your footsteps echoed lightly against the pavement as you made your way home, a takeout bag swinging loosely from one hand. You weren’t in a rush.

You liked walking at night. It was the only time the streets felt like they belonged to you.

Then quiet, so quiet you almost missed it, footsteps behind you. Not hurried. Measured.

You didn’t turn around immediately.

Not until you heard that voice.

“You always walk this slow, or is that just for me?”

You stopped in your tracks. Your pulse jumped, but you kept your voice steady. “You again?”

Geum Seongje strolled into view from behind you, hands in his pockets, hood pulled low over his brow. The streetlight caught the curve of his smirk, the glint in his eyes as he looked at you.

“You sound surprised,” he said, casual.

You tilted your head. “I shouldn’t be, should I?”

He chuckled. “Probably not. You’re not exactly forgettable.”

You stared at him for a moment, then turned and started walking again. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to because a second later, you heard his footsteps fall in beside yours.

He didn’t speak right away. Just walked with you in silence for a few steps. You could feel his presence like heat beside you.. tall, confident, cocky, but not entirely unkind. The kind of boy you were supposed to avoid. The kind of boy who could ruin your life with one look if you weren’t careful.

“I didn’t see you around the last few days,” he finally said. “Thought you were playing hard to get.”

“Or maybe I was just avoiding trouble.”

“And yet, here we are.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. He wasn’t looking at the street, or his phone, or anything else.

Just you.

“Why are you even here?” you asked.

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

He smirked. “Maybe I was in the area. Maybe I hoped I’d run into you again.”

Your brow lifted. “Why?”

He stopped walking, and you did too because the weight of his stare was too heavy to ignore now. There was something under the surface of that smirk. Something he wasn’t saying.

“You really don’t get it?” he asked, voice lower now.

“No. I don’t.”

Seongje took a slow step closer. Then another.

You didn’t move.

“Because,” he said, “you don’t flinch. You don’t shrink away. You don’t act like I’m some ticking bomb. Everyone else does.”

“I don’t see a bomb.”

He laughed softly at that. “No? You sure you’re not just blind?”

“I think I see you more clearly than most.”

That made him pause. The grin faded just slightly enough for you to see something else flicker behind his eyes. Curiosity. Maybe even vulnerability. But it vanished quickly, buried beneath layers of armor he wore like second skin.

“I don’t do this shit,” he said after a second. “Following people. Talking twice.”

“Then why now?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, slowly. “I told you already. You make it hard to ignore you.”

Your heart kicked harder against your ribs.

The way he said it, it wasn’t a compliment. It was a confession.

A problem he hadn’t planned on having.

You were both quiet for a beat. The air between you buzzed with tension, like the seconds before lightning strikes.

Then he leaned in. Slow. Careful, for once.

His hand lifted, fingers grazing your jaw gently, thumb resting just below your chin. His eyes searched yours, waiting for permission, maybe, or warning.

You didn’t stop him.

And that was all it took.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed. It was deliberate warm and deep, his other hand finding your waist, grounding you. Like he was trying to memorize how you tasted, how you breathed, how still you went in his arms. You could feel the danger in it the sharp edge beneath the softness but you leaned in anyway.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath brushing your skin.

“That mouth of yours,” he muttered, voice hoarse now. “Even better when it’s not giving me attitude.”

You smiled slightly, dazed. “You want me quiet?”

“Hell no,” he said immediately. “I like it when you talk back. Gives me a reason to keep chasing.”

You bit your lip. “Then maybe I should keep running.”

He grinned, all wolfish charm. “Good. I’d hate if this got boring.”

You stood there a moment longer, your bodies close, the city around you a blur.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and sighed.

“Shit. I’ve got somewhere to be.” His tone changed slightly colder. “Union meeting.”

You frowned. “Should I be worried about that?”

He hesitated. Just for a second.

Then “Not yet.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

Whatever the Union had on him, it wasn’t light.

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” you said softly.

He met your eyes again. “So are you. If you keep getting closer.”

Then he stepped back. And like before, he walked away.

But this time, you knew he wouldn’t stay away for long.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Cabin Fever, Baby Fever

A/N: originally named this doc ‘a dawg gone wrawng’ so I hope that gives you some idea as to what hell this is. Thanks to the anon for Conan's name, I wrote this mainly for his haters! deadass not sure if the drama is worth keeping most interested so his next ringer will probably be smut.

Part 1 , Part 2

Synopsis: You and the werewolf that knocked you up (ahem, kidnapper) discuss future pup names. 

CW: Pregnant! Reader described as a future ‘mother’, past mentions of kidnapping, kidnapper/kidnapped dynamic, knives 

You weren’t trusted in the kitchen. The only reason he left the knives out, was because he knew you wouldn’t have the gall to mess with them; if you did, a small steak knife wouldn’t do much to subdue the punishment you would quickly find, whether it was aimed at yourself or him. Anything else though, he didn’t believe you could handle. Not when you ached about the balls of your feet hurting, your lower back tensing up as you sat to read for the evening, or the dark circles laden under your eyes that made him throw a look of misery toward you.

It wasn’t just the roundness of your belly or the shift in your hormones causing you to complain. In fact, if you had been doing this entire pregnancy alone, you would probably be fine going back into work, with a slight pain in your tailbone or at your knees, but nothing you couldn’t handle. His hovering though, that was something out of your scope, doubling down on your constant stress from him always watching you. Like he was waiting for you to try and pick at the new keypad deadbolt he bought (mostly as an intimidation tactic.) Truly, a deadbolt would prove useless as long as he was here to stop you. 

Considering your recent… adventure had left you both exhausted, enraged, and anxious, your body had been deteriorating. You’d have no appetite some days and others you’d spend an evening ransacking the kitchen, alongside sleeping the entire day away only to be up at night sobbing, wishing you were anywhere but here in this shitty one bedroom flat, with a werewolf who didn’t even know how to decorate a damn living room besides for his PlayStation and 50-inch TV. 

He didn’t like to dwell on the past, or really anything that showed how miserable you were. So instead, Conan, the great next-door-whore and soon-to-be father, left you resting at the kitchen island to watch him try to cook, pretending like the fatigue causing your skin to droop and the redness in your eyes could be fixed by a good ol’ home-cooked meal. 

“I was thinking about baby names,” He broke the apartment’s stale silence, the slight sizzle of a pan on the stove accompanying his low voice. Often it felt like he talked to you like a hunter would, trying not to spook a fawn he planned on becoming his next wall decoration. “It’s so hard to choose. I mean, our kid is gonna have that name forever, y’know? Don’t want it to get picked on or nothin’ for its name.”

Our kid. What a strange thing to hear. You had known it as a fact, but hearing it outloud was bizarre.

“Names, huh…”  You let out a thin sardonic hmph at the thought.. “I agree, there’s enough things it’ll get pushed around for already, don’t need to add another one to the list.”

You didn’t mean to sound so bitter, but maybe it was the lack of concern for anything anymore that left you indifferent. 

Conan looked over his shoulder at you, his thickly haired arm still holding the pan’s handle. He was still chewing on the toothpick you saw him grab earlier. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You knew this tone, the one that said you were playing with fire. 

“How many mixed parents do you know? It seems like trying for kids in general could be a death sentence…It’s not normal, or even common. This kind of interbreeding…I mean.” The thoughts were building the more you spoke; how hadn’t you thought of some of this until now-- What would your life be after giving birth? Would there be one at all? Humans weren’t meant to carry werewolf pups. Instead of scaring you, the idea almost felt irrelevant; you were already here, caged. Death might even be a blessing.  “Either way, ‘our kid’ won’t fit in with either humans or werewolves. There’s no one for them, no place or middle ground.” 

The worries you conjured were so surface level compared to Conan’s influence. How’ll this child grow up to be a normal being with a father who won’t even let its mother out of the house? A mother who had other plans in life than this?

“We’re not all that different in species,” Conan argued, turning away from the steaming pan to look at you. “And I guess we’ll just have to be the ones who protect it. I’m not against beating up some snot-nosed brats.”

Finding your hands with his calloused fingers, Conan kissed your knuckles with a practiced gentleness. It was uncomfortably soft, not like the werewolf who once demanded you cry out his name beneath his sheets. He gazed at you through his overgrown hair with a sick sense of watching, like his eyes were trained on you. When was he going to trust you enough again to go out of the house for longer than twenty minutes, at the very least to get a haircut? It’d be a relief to have some time to yourself. To get away from his ever-prying stare. 

“The kid will be fine, i’ll teach em’ some fist fighting techniques, show em’ how to properly give a wedgie.Before you know it our kid’ll be the one bullying!” 

“Right.” You sighed, giving a small grin to offset the poorly disguised glumness in your voice. The idea was a small drop of water in the desert of your new anxieties. 

Conan would rather have you screaming and hitting at him than to see you slumped on the bed again, but it had become so routine at this point even he began to feel defeated. Maybe this was a good sign though, some light in your eternal pessimism at his lame jokes. 

He leaned over the counter to press a small kiss to your lips, not waiting for you to return the gesture before moving back to the stove. 

“Well, back to names, I was thinking a little Connie, or something badass... like Maverick.” 

You made a face at the names, shaking your head a bit. 

“I guess I haven’t given much thought to it, but even those don’t sound right.” 

“Then…” He did something to the cooked meat to make a sharp hiss of steam rise. “Why don’t we go with something easy, like Conan?” 

Conan said the name with a strange lilt, waiting for your response. He kept his back to you, biting at the toothpick in his mouth. Was he secretly hoping you’d pick that one?

“You just want a kid named after you,” You cracked a genuine smile. “Connie, Maverick, or Conan junior is the best you can think of?”

Conan gave you a teasing look, taking the mouthwatering steak out of the pan with a pair of tongs.

“Hey, I don’t hear you coming up with anything better.” 

Looking down at your stomach, the bump started to look more familiar. You didn’t know what to think about the creature occasionally kicking at your uterus and forcing you to vomit in the mornings; it seemed like it was more a part of Conan than it was you, especially with the way he tended to it with his ear pressed to your stomach, rubbing your belly like you were some magical human lamp. 

“Technically, I guess the name would be fitting. ‘Little wolf’ isn’t too far from the truth.” 

Conan placed two plates full of meat and salad on a round dining table across from the kitchen. 

“And we’ll do Conanette if it's a girl.” He quipped. 

Rolling your eyes, you attempt to get out of the kitchen island’s chair. “Alright don’t push it.”

As soon as you move to stand, Conan is quick to rush himself in front of you, blocking your escape.

“I’ll carry you to the table.” He places one hand on the counter and stares at you cautiously.

“It’s literally like three feet,” You look behind him at the food, the hole in your stomach desperate for something with flavor and not the mere Saltines you’ve been eating all day. 

“Just let me do it. Please?” He looked almost desperate, most certainly ready to brood if you dared to reject him.

The last time he carried you was… not a pleasant ride. Is that why he wanted to pick you up now, to repair what he’s done? You almost grew irritated at the thought. Did he really think picking you up with your consent this time was going to change anything? You were a prisoner here, not some sweet lover. Just another one of his one-night stands gone wrong. 

Well, at least this explained why the sadism and horniness he usually radiated had been partly snuffed. 

A hard kick in your stomach made you clench your teeth; seemed like the little monster was as hungry as you were. 

“So fucking persistent...” You mumble, hurrying him with your hand to get it over with. If you wanted to eat and not be brutalized by a fetus, there was a clear option to choose. 

Conan was quick to follow, putting an arm at your back and under your knees to pick you up bridal style. Your bump had gotten big enough to be uncomfortable if he didn’t hold you right, but his arms were overly heedful when picking you up. Laying your head to rest on his collarbone, he kept your thighs away enough from your stomach to keep you uncramped. The werewolf had deadlifted barbells twice your size, leaving you to be a solid, comfortable warmness in his arms; this was one of the few times his strength didn’t appear  to make you afraid, the image of your comfort practically egging on the hubristic grin that spread on his lips. 

“See, it’s not all bad being treated like royalty.” He smirked, watching you hold the satisfaction of a ‘thank you’ or a smile from him. 

“Can you please hurry, mini Conanette is beating on her cell bars,” You wince, the smell of the seasoned meat making your mouth salivate and your stomach twist. You weren’t willing to let him know, but the warmth of his arms beneath you, the smell of his skin-- it brought about a gentle comfort, accompanied by a kind of unfamiliar terror that made you want to crawl out of your flesh.

Conan pulled out a wooden chair by the table with his foot, leaning down to set you in it. 

“T’s because little Conan knows his daddy’s here.” Conan gets on his knees to be eye level with your stomach, letting his hand rest on your knee. “Stop beating on your mother, you brat. Once you get out here, you’re gonna have to fight me like a man for all the pain you’ve been causing.”

“Okay, that’s enough out of you.”

His little remarks had forced a small laugh from your lips, making the evening like that more of a dream than reality. This was the same man who drug you back to his apartment, who won’t let you outside without a tight grip of his hand in yours?

You pull your chair in, searching for your fork and knife. Instead, a fork and a spoon were placed beside your plate, your steak already cut up in bite size pieces for you. Odd. 

That’s when you noticed it; the table was set up as per usual, but the tablecloth had been dry cleaned, and small candles were lit in the middle, a porcelain plate keeping the wax in a secluded pool. You even had a napkin at your side, something Conan didn’t particularly take note of often in bringing. 

The werewolf turned your face toward him with his large hand, careful not to strike you with his sharp claws. 

“Eat up, you need your protein.”

He almost sounded condescending, but the hard kiss pressed to your temple made you unsure.

This poor attempt at what looked like a date, an effort at putting back together something that never could be fixed, would not fool you. The missing knife was starting to make you nervous as Conan sat down on his side of the table, digging in, untroubled. It looked to be another freedom stripped away indefinitely, your food’s preparation an unfunny joke in how it was akin to being cut for a child.

Your laughter was gone, replaced by something sour bubbling in the back of your throat. You’d have to hope, to pray that today he just wasn’t taking any chances so you wouldn’t ‘ruin the evening,’, that you’d find the missing knife block back on the kitchen counter tomorrow morning. 

[southernimpala]

i love you, stupid

sam winchester x fem!reader

summary ↬ sam gets a bit too drunk after you get hurt and you're left to take care of him

notice ↬ she has finally posted!! a little angst if you squint, fluffy as always, sam being drunk, descriptions of injury nothing too crazy, writers block is a bitch (and so is finals week(but dean smut coming soon :)), no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 3.2k

the motel bathroom smells medicinal like antiseptic, burning your nose and causing tears to flood your waterline. 

well, you aren’t sure if it’s the rubbing alcohol or the stinging from your head wound that’s making you cry. probably both.

the hunt was a success; a few stubborn vampires taking teenage girls as their victims in a nowhere town in oaklahoma, nothing you and the boys couldn’t handle. except, when a vampire manages to get their hands on you, that’s a cause for disaster. 

“can you be any more rough?” you groan. you’re sitting on top of the sink, gripping hard around the porcelain under you as dean closes the nasty gash decorating your forehead, “you stitch yourself up like this?”

 he sticks his tongue out in concentration, not bothering to entertain your words laced with pain, “almost done.” 

“i can’t believe the thing managed to throw me down a flight of stairs,” you chuckle mirthlessly, the ache stemming from your back coursing through the rest of your body as you recall the incident, “couldn’t even do its job right and just bite me.” 

dean laughs. sam, who is leaning against the bathroom door frame, doesn’t.

instead, he scoffs, “did you want it to?” 

you furrow your eyebrows, “no, sam, i was kidding—” you hiss as dean threads the last needle through, “—fuck, that stings.” 

he still doesn’t appear amused. his eyes fall to his shoes, arms crossed over his broad chest as he avoids your confused gaze, looking like a kid whose just been scolded.

you know sam doesn’t take people close to him getting hurt lightly, especially you, for a reason you can’t pinpoint. but, nothing tragic happened. you’d just been shoved and knocked out; hit your head on the last step before tumbling all the way down. compared to what else the three of you have been put through, that seems miniscule. 

except, sam isn’t taking it like some tiny paper cut or bruise. and truthfully, you were trying to make yourself feel better about the situation. losing consciousness for an hour and waking up with a much too deep tear in your forehead was enough to spook even you. but, you were fine. alive and breathing. 

“well,” dean starts, noticing the awkward tension suffocating the room, “you probably still have a concussion, so i’d take it easy tonight, see how you feel in the morning.” 

“great,” you huff sarcastically, letting him help you off the counter, “i was planning on getting plastered.” 

sam scoffs again, his eyes, weighted by something, glaring at your figure as you move to sit on one of the motel beds, “you aren’t funny.” 

“alright, what’s your problem?” you ask, now slightly annoyed at the coldness bleeding from his tone. 

“nothing,” he brushes off, “just wish you’d take this more seriously.”

“more seriously?” you repeat, surprised, and now, completely frustrated, “what do you want me to do? sulk about a scratch on my forehead?” 

“it isn’t a scratch,” he retorts, voice picking up.

“well, it certainly isn’t fatal!” you argue louder. your head starts to spin. 

“could’ve been!” 

“could not!” spots dot your vision. 

suddenly, dean moves to step in between the two of you just before you can attempt to stand up and escalate the situation. 

“alright, alright, you two, will you both calm down,” dean intervenes, like a parent taking control of his two children, his hands stopped in front of both of your chests, “she’s fine, sammy, take it easy on her, alright?” 

sam bites the inside of his cheek, looking away and nodding angrily. it takes all but a minute of silence for him to break it, “i’m going out,” he announces, words thick with emotion. 

your expression softens slightly as you hear the slight shake in his voice and see the bob in his throat as he swallows whatever is lodged there. your mouth opens and closes like a fly trap, trying to muster something to say to diffuse whatever the hell that was before he walks out. 

you jump as the door slams shut, and suddenly, all the blood—red hot with frustration and confusion—rushes back to your wound as you begin to wobble on weak legs. dean grabs your arm to stabilize you— “woah, you’re okay,”—helping you sit back on the bed as you take your head in your hands, squeezing your eyes shut as your vision blurs and spins.

you muster a laugh, “guess it’s worse off than we thought.” 

“well, gettin’ yourself all worked up will do that,” dean says, his eyebrows now creased in newfound concern at your worsening state. your eyes start to become heavy. dean notices. 

he helps you lay back against the pillows, “try and get some rest.” 

you nestle your face into the floral fabric, trying to ignore the musty smell and the ache in your chest as you take a deep breath, flashes of sam’s face, so melted in emotion and anger, burn your eyelids, “is he alright, dean?” 

“he’s fine and so are you,” dean hushes quickly, bringing the covers up over your shoulder, “i’ll go talk to him; you don’t worry ‘bout a thing but gettin’ better.” 

 at his voice’s soft assuredness, you manage to sink yourself into your drowsiness, sleep overtaking your aching body. 

when you awake, you’re immediately drawn to the dull throbbing in your temple, traveling down your arms—bruises starting to form along your skin—all the way to the bottom of your back. you groan, bringing a hand to shield your sensitive eyes from the gross, yellow light emitting from the bedside lamp, bulb flickering shadows onto the dark walls. 

the ac is loud, too loud for the migraine you’re experiencing. and the disorientation that comes after a concussion-induced nap consumes you. 

as you try to adjust your eyes and ears, you begin to sit up, looking around the room. and that’s when you realize you’re alone. 

you sigh. at least with the room to yourself you could go back to sleep easier, no snoring or loud breathing to annoy you as you heal. but as you move to turn the lamp off, you notice a note scribbled in dean’s handwriting and another room key.  

found sam. he’s at the bar. got me and him the next room over to give you space. 

if you’re reading this, go back to bed. 

you want to smile at the thoughtfulness, but ‘found sam. he’s at the bar’ causes your insides to twist. 

your eyes glance at the old digital clock beside the note, the blinking red numbers reading 4:41. you assume dean managed to drag his ass back to the new room, both probably passed out asleep at this point. you’d slept for four hours. a lot could happen in four hours. 

just make sure he’s back home, you think to yourself as you make your weak legs get out of bed. another blood rush forces you to grip the nightstand, steadying yourself as much as possible as you blink away more spots. just make sure he’s alright. 

 you leave the room, chilly june wind swirling around you under the bright moonlight, which is peeking through tree silhouettes from the nearby woods. 

the dive bar across the parking lot catches your eye, but you force yourself into the next room. unlocking the door with the spare key next to the note, your heart sinks as you creak it open and see dean, sprawled on the far right bed, passed out and snoring in the dark room, with sam nowhere to be found. 

you curse to yourself, shutting the door gently so as not to wake him. you look over at the bar again and your stomach knots. god knows what sort of state he’s in; drunk out of his mind, maybe in the middle of a fistfight with a biker gang. it all seems so much more dean winchester, but the look in sam’s eye before he left told you he wasn’t in the right state of mind, wasn’t sam. 

the loud classic rock blasting through the jukebox in the dingy bar was enough to make your head spin again. you blink rapidly to keep your vision stable as you search each face for the hazel eyes you catch yourself staring into, for the soft hair you only wish you could run your fingers through, and the smile that amplifies your pulse. 

it takes a while to find him in the crowded, small room, but sudden shouting erupting from a pool table in the far corner perks your ears.

“you think you can hustle me?” a gruff voice shouts.  

“nooooo, i knowww i can hustle youuuu,” another slurs. you recognize that voice. 

pool cues clatter on the floor. loud boots stomp. a fist connects to a face. 

your heart drops as sam’s body stumbles back into the billiard table. without hesitation, you’re pushing through the bulky crowd with newfound adrenaline. before the large, tatted man can get another hit on sam, you stand between them, shielding his body with yours, broken and bruised. 

“stop!” you yell, digging your hand into sam’s chest to keep him against the table, “he’s leaving okay, he’s leaving.” 

you can’t look at sam’s face, but you feel his eyes, hooded with impairment, burning holes into your figure.

“look at this,” the man laughs grossly, “this one’s got a bitch saving his ass.” 

sam wrestles against your hold, “shut up!” 

“what was that boy?” the man takes another burley step toward you, but you hold your ground.

“get away from us,” you demand. the man’s face twists as your vision blurs again, “we’re leaving.” 

you grab sam’s shoulders firmly, forcing him out as he struggles to break free, “let go of me!” 

ignoring his feeble attempts at rushing back to the man—his body shaking with rage against you—you manage to make it out of the bar and into the brisk night air again. 

“sam, can you—” you grunt as you heave his arm higher around yours, struggling under the deadweight, “—can you help me out a little here?” 

his breath reeks of whiskey as it fans across your face, “that jackasssss—should’ve shown h-him who i—” he hiccups, “—ammm!” 

“god, how much did you drink?” you think aloud, the motel room getting closer. 

he giggles drunkenly, “not enough!” 

you roll your eyes, propping him up on the dirty brick as you unlock the door, sam instantly bursting inside. he stumbles into a dusty lamp, laughing to himself as he trips about the room. he eventually lands on the mattress, sprawling out and staring at the ceiling. 

you take a wobbly seat in the chair across the beds, rubbing a stressed hand across your forehead, careful not to graze over the fresh stitches in your skin. 

“this bed is comfortable!” he shouts, forcing you to shush him harshly. 

the small bit of relief you feel now that sam’s in your sights, alive and not getting his ass handed to him in some back alley behind the bar, fades quickly as he starts rambling, giggling, and  acting like dean after a rough bender. 

“sam, what the hell is wrong with you?” you ask exasperatedly. 

“what do you mean?” he asks, clueless, “i feel great!” 

your tongue pokes your cheek, “why did dean leave you in that bar?” 

sam smiles strangely, “he didn’t leaveeee, i made him.” 

“yeah, and how did you do that?” you ask, unbelieving. you know dean would never leave his brother in this state regardless of how hard sam tries to shoo him off. 

“well, i wasn’t like this,” he states, as if you should’ve known that already. he shrugs, “i just told him i’d be back in an hour… like three hours ago,” a giggle bursts past his whisky lips, “what an idiot!” 

“this isn’t like you,” you huff, standing up to help him sit upright; just in case he starts vomiting. 

 “why can’t it be like me?” he hiccups, “oh, so—dean’s the only one to have all the fun?” 

“no, i—” suddenly, waking dean and letting him handle whatever the hell is happening with his brother seems like your favorite way of dealing with this. “i just wanna know what’s wrong.” 

 under the dim light illuminating half of his face, reflecting off the green and yellow in his iris, you finally notice how tired he looks. and not so much physically. emotionally, it seems like he went through a trainwreck—baggy under eyes, flushed cheeks, waterline rimmed red. 

“you,” he whines, mind still in a brandy induced fog. 

you bite your lip, “you can hate me for dragging you out of there sam, but, i still need to know what’s—” 

“yeah, you!” his voice picks up again. 

you wonder if it’s your head trauma or the confusion causing your head to spin

“sam, i don’t—” 

“i couldn’t even stitch you up myself,” he mumbles, words dipped in delirium, “hands were shake—” he hiccups again, “—my hands were shaking and i knew i couldn’t so dean had to.” 

 you’re silent as he rambles and runs a stressed hand through his tousled brown hair, soft despite the sweat accumulating by his temple, “i wanted to do it but i couldn’t stop remembering you falling down those—” another hiccup, “—down those stairs.” 

without warning, sadness crashes over his face like a tidal wave, the giddy drunken smile morphing into a depressed frown, brows furrowed, eyes now heavy and teary-eyed, “i thought you were done; all the blood from your head and how many steps you fell down and then you didn’t wake up—” he cuts himself off with a choked sob, “and i was too late.” 

your ribs gripped your heart in a clenched fist, “what do you mean, ‘too late’, sam?” 

another pained gasp slips from his lips, “i saw it, saw you about to fall, saw that vamp put its hands on you and i froze.” 

in an instant, your mind flashes to right before you were shoved, and then you remember. sam’s broad figure looming down the hallway, watching with wide eyes, frozen in fear. realistically, there was no way he could make it to you in time regardless, but you felt the weight of his guilt. and then it all makes sense. 

“sam—” 

“don’t,” he interrupts, sniffling, and you can tell the rush of emotion forced him to sober up a bit, “it was my fault.” 

you purse your lips, swallowing down whatever multitude of protests are dying to be let out. you know that’s the last thing he needs, and the uneasy look on his face as he wobbles in his seat confirms that for you. 

he almost topples forward, reminiscent of how you were after dean had patched you up, but you catch his shoulders, easing him back down on the floral sheets and onto his side. 

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering as he fights sleep.

“nothing to be sorry for, sammy,” you say, trying to keep your composure.

he looks so soft and innocent, the way his eyelashes fan against his blushed cheek sending your brain scrambling again. you run a warm hand down his forearm, easing him into some kind of relaxation. 

sam tries to fight it, swallowing dryly as he looks at you through hooded lids, “i won’t freeze next time,” he exhales. 

as he drifts off to sleep under your steady hand, you pray your heart isn’t thumping loud enough for him to hear through your chest, because you certainly can.

your fingers move to trace the fresh, bumpy, and definitely uneven stitches along your forehead, and can’t help the bittersweet grin that forms on your face as his words settle.

the buzz of the dingy diner the next morning is not the wakeup call neither you or sam need, heads in a tizzy from the debilitating hangover and your little trip downstairs. you’re both squished in the red booth beside each other, twirling your fork in your eggs—a sickening yellow color that makes your guts twist—and sam, gulping down water like a starved man. 

not to mention, you were both running on four hours of sleep. 

dean looks between the two of you, “jesus, what the hell happened to you two last night?” 

you groan, sliding your head into your hands, “too much.” 

“way too much,” sam adds, voice muffled by the plastic cup. 

“i knew i shouldn’t have left you,” dean says, taking a hefty forkful of pancakes, “either of you because this—”  he points to the two of you with his utensil, “—this is what happens.”

the look on dean’s face when he walked into your room this morning, dumbfounded at the sight before him: you and sam sleeping beside each other, not touching but certainly close enough, might be ingrained in your memory forever. 

“i took care of it,” you assure. 

“only did so with a concussion,” he argues, stabbing his breakfast again, “what the hell happened?” 

you try to hide the pink arising on your cheeks, sinking into the ripped up booth, attempting to catch sam’s expression out of the corner of your eye. you can tell he’s trying to hide the fact that he remembers everything, the words he spoke bordering on some kind of confession still lingering on his tongue. you ache to hear them, to know why he lost himself last night because you were hurt. 

certainly, it wasn’t just because you were friends. and the rose color dusting over his nose confirms that for you. 

“nothing,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter, “just got him to bed and passed out again.” 

“yeah,” dean mumbles, unconvinced, “yeah, alright.” 

he gets a head start to the car as you and sam pay the bill at the front, anxiety crawling up your stomach and settling in your chest as you rack your brain on anything to say to him. 

“so,” you start, walking out of the diner, “don’t remember a thing, either?”

sam stops, grabbing your elbow softly to pull you out of dean’s view, shielding yourselves on the side of the building. you press up against the brick, watching as his tongue pokes at his cheek in thought. 

“you have no idea how sorry i am about last night,” he says quickly, face flushed, “you were hurt and you had to take care of me and listen to me spew all this self loathing crap, and—” 

“sam,” you stop him, bringing a hand to his solid chest, feeling the thump thump of his heart as it races under your palm, “was it all true?” 

his eyebrows furrow before falling softly in realization and remembrance. 

“about you freezing and caring and worrying,” you add, voice a note higher than a whisper, “was it true?” 

he looks away, then slowly begins to nod. 

all the blood in your body rushes to your feet, almost giving you a feeling of weightlessness, and before you can back down, you bring your lips up softly to his, pressing deep into his mouth as his part in shock. 

then, he melts, a large hand falling behind your head, fingers threaded through your hair. 

you feel him smile against your own, prompting you to bring a palm up to his jaw, the kiss deepening—

a loud honk blares through the chirping birds and rustling trees. you both jump apart, lips swollen and eyes bulged. 

dean pulls the car up, watching you through the impala windows as he honks again, beckoning you both. 

you swallow down the lump in your throat as everything dean winchester is going to say about what he’s seen rushes through your mind. 

yeah, you’re both done for.

but, it’s so worth it.

[sh4nksslvt]

Espionage and Eavesdropping

You just wanted to surprise your Yonko boyfriend with something sweet. Shanks, however, misunderstands everything and thinks you're hiding a lover aboard.

shanks x reader | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, chaotic

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing

word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You should’ve known better than to try anything secretive on a ship full of pirates with nothing better to do.

But here you were, crouched behind a stack of rum barrels in the ship’s lower deck, notebook clutched in one hand, whispering into a den den mushi like you were planning a military coup.

“I just need it by Thursday,” you hissed. “And don’t forget the edible glitter! It has to sparkle like Shanks’s ego.”

The den den mushi blinked at you slowly, mimicking your furrowed brows. “Sparkle. Got it. Any other unreasonable demands?”

“Make it look dangerously romantic, but also incredibly cool.”

“Sounds like you want a wedding cake without the wedding.”

You paused. “…Don’t say that out loud. He’ll hear it and assume I’m trying to marry someone else.”

And two decks above you, curled beneath a conveniently placed hammock and eavesdropping like a man twice his age, Shanks the Red-Haired Yonko of the Sea, whispered into his own den den mushi.

“I think they’re marrying someone else.”

“What?” Benn Beckman’s voice was dry.

“I just heard them say ‘don’t say that out loud, he’ll think I’m marrying someone else.’ That’s exactly what someone who’s definitely hiding an affair says, right?!”

“Shanks—”

“I KNEW they were too beautiful to be loyal.”

“You’re the most dramatic man on this ship.”

“I’m going to fake my own death and see if they cry.”

The misunderstanding began three days ago, when you asked Lucky Roux to quietly sneak into town and pick up something discreet and delicate. You’d given him a long list with unnecessary glitter stars and bold underlines, swore him to secrecy, and told him, “Tell no one. Especially Shanks. Not even if he’s dying. Especially not if he’s dying.”

Unfortunately, someone else heard that.

And Shanks? He took it personally.

Now you were organizing a surprise celebration for his birthday (which he had claimed he didn’t care about, like a liar), enlisting crew members with the stealth of a sea cat, and every time Shanks looked at you, you panicked like a criminal caught red-handed.

So of course he thought something was going on.

You’d whisper to Yasopp, run away from Hongo, disappear for hours, and dodge Shanks with the finesse of someone avoiding a breakup talk. He started following you in secret, wearing a cape and fake mustache, hiding behind crates that were nowhere near his size.

Benn walked past him one day and muttered, “This is why we can’t have normal relationships.”

Day Four.

You were on the main deck, whispering into your notebook.

“Benn’s distracting him with fake wine. Hongo’s handling the fireproof sparklers. Yasopp is swearing on his son’s life not to tell. I just need to—”

“—tell me who you’re seeing.”

You jumped so hard you nearly tossed the notebook overboard.

“Shanks! What the hell—how did you sneak up on me like that?!”

He was squinting suspiciously, arm on his hip, shirt loose, and hair windblown in a way that made him look far too attractive to be pulling this level of paranoid nonsense.

“I have connections,” he said ominously.

“Okay?”

“Lucky Roux saw you give a note to a pigeon.”

“First of all, it was a cake-ordering pigeon, and second—wait, that’s not the point. What?”

“You’ve been sneaking around. Whispering into things. Saying suspicious phrases like ‘don’t tell Shanks even if he’s dying.’ What am I supposed to think?!”

“That I’m planning something nice?”

“That you’re cheating!”

You blinked. Then blinked again.

“…Cheating? Shanks. Darling. Love of my life. Who on this ship could I possibly be cheating on you with?!”

He pointed dramatically toward the horizon. “Someone from another crew! A beautiful stranger with a strong jawline and a charming laugh—”

“That’s literally you.”

“Wait. Is this a reverse surprise? Am I the stranger?!”

“No!” you laughed, smacking his chest. “I’m planning a surprise party for you, you idiot!”

“…Oh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you… spy on me?”

Shanks hesitated. Then lifted one leg onto a crate like a theater actor mid-monologue. “I’ll have you know I was on a noble quest for truth, love, and the prevention of heartbreak.”

“You wore a mustache and tried to climb the rigging, didn’t you.”

He coughed. “Irrelevant.”

You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “Unbelievable. You thought I was cheating, so you started counter-spying?”

He nodded solemnly. “It was a matter of pride. Also, Benn said if I was wrong, I owed him all my sake.”

“…And were you wrong?”

Shanks looked at you. Then at the crew. Then back at you.

“…Maybe. But in my defense, you are very suspicious when you whisper.”

Cue Party Day.

Despite the chaos, the confusion, and the unnecessary disguises, the party was perfect.

The deck was transformed with string lights, stolen silk drapes, a truly dangerous amount of glitter, and a cake shaped like his own face (your idea, obviously). A very confused seagull in a bowtie delivered the final decorations.

Shanks walked into the surprise party pretending to be shocked—even though he’d definitely heard the band warming up from below deck—and laughed like it was the greatest moment of his life.

“You did all this for me?” he beamed.

You crossed your arms. “Yes. Even though you accused me of having a secret affair.”

He grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Well, I would cheat on me for you, so I get it.”

“…That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to. I’m handsome.”

He kissed your cheek before you could argue, then pulled you onto the dance floor—barefoot, wild, and surrounded by pirates singing off-key. At some point, Lucky Roux accidentally ignited the fireproof sparklers (which were not fireproof), and Benn had to douse the deck while muttering about retirement.

You and Shanks ended the night lying on a picnic blanket made from stolen tavern tablecloths, eating leftover cake straight from the tray.

“Next time you plan a surprise,” he mumbled, mouth full, “just… tell me it’s not a secret affair.”

You poked his cheek. “Only if you don’t go full spy-movie mode again.”

He smiled. “Deal. Unless you start whispering to birds again. Then all bets are off.”

The next morning, you woke to find Shanks crouched on the figurehead, holding a long telescope and muttering, “The pigeon is back. I repeat. The pigeon. Is. Back.”

You dragged a pillow over your face and groaned.

Some things never change.

[hikarisakurariver]

Yes, that was the point of Seto Kaiba as a character.

Seto and Mokuba were adopted by a terribly cruel and evil man that regularly tortured Seto for fun while forcing him to be a perfect son on display.

Seto did manage to shield Mokuba from him by taking on everything and staying silent, working harder under impossible conditions to protect Mokuba.

The day he finally seized control of Kaiba corp he immediately tore down his adopted Fathers legacy and in doing so ended the cycle of torment.

It’s a pity that none of the main cast know any of this and assume Seto is just a trust fund kid who’s dad went missing (I don’t think they even know he’s adopted) and then set Kaiba corp at the forefront of toys.

Like Seto is a grade A jerk at the best of times, but none of them know just how much he suffered through.

They don’t know that his often twisted personality (much more evident in the manga) is due to him been treated as expendable in his youth and tormented through out most of his childhood.

He became cold and dismissive to show his father he didn’t bother him. He became closed off to everyone except Mokuba to protect himself from the terrible adults that should have protected him.

He learned to never be vulnerable or else his weakness would be exploited. He became hard as stone because if he felt anything he would crumble.

I can’t blame him for having a blueyes white dragon plane! He is healing and reclaiming his child self!

I can’t blame him for not believing in magic, because where were these great destiny and powers when he was young and vulnerable?

No he saved himself and his brother to accept there was a greater plan is to accept that his Father had to do what he did.

He saved so many through tearing down the weapons and hiring employees to built toys instead and know one but he comprehends it.

Seto Kaiba changing his father's business from an arms manufacturer to a games company is, in hindsight, one of the most heroic and noble actions of the entire franchise. Like bruh one weapons company can start entire wars just for a profit, millions of people were probably spared thanks to him.

[lyn31]

Sinceeee i'm still in this zayne and mc on a honeymoon sweetness haze, might as well request another one for my dose of sweetness hahaha can you pretty please write more about their newlywed life, all domestic like them cooking together, going on grocery shopping maybe? Heck even them doing laundry together would be cute 🤣 oh and probably them going to work related functions for the first time since the wedding and introducing each other as husband / wife? Just sending this in before i sleep so good night and thankyou in advance! hehe 💕❤️

Hopefully it's not died down yet 😂🫶🏻 And no worries, seeing that I made a series in ao3, this story would keep coming even if it just a short little scene! And again, I can't choose what activity for them to do, so this is how it ended up being...

Let me know what you think! 👀💕

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

New Chapter of Life Together

Summary

You learn what it means to be loved as a wife—not through grand declarations, but in quiet mornings, soft reassurances, and the steady presence of the man who chose you for life.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Married Life, newlyweds, fluff, banter, silly, chaos, a lot of flirting!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing you feel is his arm, heavy and familiar around your waist. Then the warmth of his chest, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath against your shoulder. You shift slightly, testing the morning light that peeks through the curtains—and immediately, Zayne tightens his hold on you with all the intent of someone who has no plans of letting you escape.

"Good morning, wife," he murmurs against your skin, voice still rough with sleep.

You smile before your eyes are even fully open. "Good morning, husband."

The views aren’t new anymore. You’ve lived together long before vows were exchanged, before rings slipped into place. But now—now they taste sweeter, weightier. Even when said half-teasing, neither of you seem eager to stop.

You stretch your leg over his, limbs tangled beneath the covers, and he exhales softly like that was exactly what he wanted. For a moment, neither of you speak. Just the quiet of the room, the drowsy comfort of not needing to be anywhere yet.

"I had a weird dream," you mumble into his collarbone. "You were trying to fight a sentient loaf of bread."

Zayne hums. "Did I win?"

"Only after giving it a heartfelt speech about forgiveness."

"I see." A beat. "Sounds accurate."

You laugh under your breath. He kisses the back of your neck, absently, like it’s muscle memory. You reach behind you, fingertips brushing his chest until they find that familiar, faint heartbeat under your touch—calm and certain, just like him.

"What should we eat?" you ask after a pause, not moving an inch.

"You're asking me that while still in bed?" he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"No dirty thoughts! I’m manifesting brunch."

"You’re manifesting it from the arms of your husband, who is also very comfortable."

You twist slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. "Fine, I guess we’ll starve together."

Zayne’s smile is small but unmistakable, the kind that barely lifts the corner of his lips and still somehow makes your stomach flutter. He leans in, brushing his mouth against yours—slow, warm, and just the right side of lazy. It deepens as your fingers slip into his hair, and for a moment, you both seem to forget everything else. His touch drifts lower, and the kiss turns languid, coaxing.

But then, your stomach lets out a loud, undeniable growl.

You freeze. Zayne stills. And then, against your neck, you feel his shoulders start to shake with laughter.

"Okay, okay," you groan, burying your face in the pillow. "Rude."

He kisses your temple, still grinning. "Brunch it is."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You pad into the kitchen behind him, still barefoot, hair a mess, wearing one of his oversized shirts like you always do on mornings like this. Zayne rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, sets his tablet on the counter, and already you can see that look in his eyes—the one that says he’s taking this way too seriously.

"Let me help," you say, even though you both know what that usually means.

Zayne glances over his shoulder with that soft, amused expression he reserves just for you. "You sure?"

"Of course! It’s brunch. It’s meant to be spontaneous and unhinged."

He blinks but nods all the same. "Alright. But no cinnamon in the eggs again."

"That's one time," you mutter, grabbing a pan anyway.

It’s controlled chaos from there. Zayne measures ingredients with military precision, he stirs with careful, deliberate movements. Meanwhile, you’re humming whatever’s stuck in your head, tossing in seasonings by instinct, ignoring every suggestion he tries to gently offer.

"That’s not... two teaspoons," he points out mildly, watching you sprinkle something into your pan with reckless abandon.

"It’s two teaspoons in spirit."

He shakes his head, reaching around you to grab a cutting board, only for your elbow to bump his side. You dodge in front of him, stealing his spatula just to flip your own food. He frowns, but there’s no heat in it. Just the usual dance of coexisting in a space too small for both your styles.

At some point, you flick flour at him.

It catches him clean on the nose, dusting his face like powdered sugar. He doesn’t react at first—just stares at you, completely deadpan, as if deciding whether to reprimand you or kiss you senseless.

You burst into laughter.

"You have flour—" you wheeze, pointing, "on your—"

Zayne calmly wipes his nose with a dish towel. "I’m married to a gremlin."

"Excuse you, I’m a culinary genius."

"You’re a hazard."

Still, when everything’s finally cooked and plated, the result is... actually edible. Good, even. The eggs are a little crisped on one side, the toast slightly uneven, but the flavors are warm and comforting and somehow perfectly them. You both slide onto the counter, plates balanced on your laps, legs swinging lazily.

The window’s open. The breeze smells like spring. He hands you a fork, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips again as he watches you take your first bite.

"...Not bad, right?" you ask, mouth full.

"Brilliant," he says dryly. "I might survive after all."

You nudge your foot against his, eyes catching his in that soft, slow moment that doesn’t need anything more than just being here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shower is—miraculously—efficient. Warm water, quiet kisses, just enough lingering touches to feel indulgent without dragging the hours into full-blown distraction. You both dry off in sync, navigating the shared space like muscle memory, and by the time you're dressed and slipping on your shoes, it's afternoon.

Sunday means errands, but it doesn’t feel like a chore. Not when it’s the two of you.

You stop by the dry cleaners first, where Zayne handles the transaction with his usual quiet grace and you eye the mystery stain on one of his button-downs like it personally offended you. Then it’s light bulbs, of all things, which somehow turns into a debate over wattage because Zayne is, of course, reading the box like it’s a research paper.

"I swear you overthink these," you mutter, nudging his arm with your elbow.

"And you under think everything," he replies, without even looking up.

Fair.

But the best part of the afternoon is the plant shop. It’s a cozy little place that smells like soil and citrus, and you make a beeline for the corner where the leafy, drooping misfits live. One in particular catches your eye—a slightly crooked snake plant with a tilted pot and far too much charm for Zayne to ignore.

"We just re-potted three last month," he says, arms crossed.

"He’s different. Look at him," you coo, lifting the little guy carefully. "He’s got personality."

Zayne gives the plant a long, assessing look, then you. Then the plant again. "...You’re going to forget to water it."

"I won’t."

"You will," he says, but takes the pot from you anyway, one hand cradling the base like it’s fragile. The way he does it makes you grin—he’s already accepted the adoption, whether he admits it or not.

Outside the store, an elderly woman fumbles with her bags, and before either of you even speak, you step forward to help. Zayne’s hand settles briefly at the small of your back as you assist her, steady and quiet. She thanks you both sweetly, eyes crinkling, and you flash her a smile that lingers longer than necessary.

Zayne watches that smile with a softness he doesn’t say out loud.

The rest of the outing passes in that same easy rhythm. You hand him your drink without a word, and he takes a sip like it’s routine—no need to ask. You lean into him while waiting at a crosswalk, forehead briefly brushing his shoulder. At some point, you bicker about whether taking 3rd Avenue or looping around through the back road is faster—Zayne with logic, you with stubborn gut feeling. He humors you and takes your route anyway.

By the time you hit the grocery store, you’re both ready to knock out dinner prep. But the snack aisle derails everything. Zayne sneaks bags of cookies into the cart like you can’t see it or something. You remove one, replacing it with the lower-sugar version, only for him to sneak another one in from behind your back.

"You know we came here for, like, eggs and rice, right?" You say, grinning, crossing your arms.

"And chocolate," he adds, tossing in a novelty-flavored candy bar. He casually looks at his phone that has the grocery list like he didn’t just add sweet into it.

You scan the nutritional label like it just betrayed your trust. Seriously—if you didn’t stop this man, all his teeth would rot and he wouldn’t even regret it.

Eventually, you give up pretending to be responsible and accept that your cart now contains enough snacks for a week. Maybe two.

On the way home, you both realize brunch wore off faster than expected. Zayne’s stomach growls first. You don’t say anything—just raise an eyebrow and gesture toward a café at the corner.

Ten minutes later, you're inside, warm and cozy, sunlight filtering through the windows. He’s reading the menu with that familiar furrow between his brows, like choosing between a croissant and a danish is a life-altering decision.

"You look so serious right now," you tease, sipping your drink. "Like you’re solving a medical mystery. For pastries."

"I like to be thorough."

"You're adorable."

He lowers the menu slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "...You’re not getting out of deciding the movie tonight." But despite how steady his tone is, the tips of his ears are turning red.

You grin around the rim of your cup. "I’ll let you pick—if you get the strawberry tart and let me steal half."

"...Deal."

You end up splitting three pastries anyway. Conversation drifts from movies to work, to the idea of maybe cooking something light for dinner, to whether or not that plant is actually going to survive under your care. It’s nothing flashy. Just the rhythm of being you and Zayne—shared smiles, knees bumping beneath the table, the world soft around the edges.

And for a lazy Sunday? It’s perfect.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Monday morning hits different after a slow weekend. There’s a light chill in the air, one that creeps in through the kitchen windows despite the soft warmth of dawn pressing through the curtains. You pad across the tile floor, barefoot, still slightly sleepy, wearing nothing but one of Zayne’s button-downs—loose, wrinkled from the laundry basket, and hanging just enough to tease.

You’re not really trying to make a statement.

...But you're also not not trying.

You're mid-pour with the kettle when you hear the bathroom door open and soft footsteps cross the hall. Zayne steps into the kitchen, towel around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing his usual morning expression—composed, alert, too calm for someone who just walked in on his wife looking like that.

Except for the smallest shift in his gaze, the stillness in his steps as he takes you in.

He says nothing at first, only moves toward the counter like he always does. Pours himself a mug of coffee. But you catch the flicker. That very specific pause as he lifts the cup to his lips and doesn't drink—just watches you over the rim, quiet, assessing.

And yeah. You know exactly what you're doing.

"Morning, husband," you say sweetly, voice innocent as you stretch just slightly to reach the sugar jar.

His eyes trail the motion, linger a second too long. "...Good morning, wife."

He sets the mug down with a soft clink. That’s all. No teasing, no smirking. But you feel the tension in the air anyway, coiling subtle and slow between your bare thighs and his calm restraint. This man, composed even now, does nothing by accident.

"You're going to be late," he says, finally turning back to his coffee.

"So are you," you reply, sipping yours, perfectly unfazed.

But his gaze dips once more as he walks past you, deliberately brushing the edge of his hand along the curve of your waist, kissing you slowly before going on his way out of the kitchen, as if staying any longer would mean neither of you would get out of the house today.

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A few hours into work, you’re back on base, half-distracted during reports when something ridiculous happens—Tara gets her coat stuck in the door and tries to play it off like it didn’t happen. You manage a sneaky photo just before she notices.

You send it to Zayne with no caption.

A minute later, your screen lights up.

Mine💕: Is this why you were wearing my shirt and nothing else this morning? To not get attack by door?

You grin and fire back.

You: Well, I had to arm myself with something. Your shirt felt appropriate. Has… sentimental value.

Mine💕: It had strategic value this morning too.

You almost laugh out loud.

You: Are you suggesting I distracted you?

Mine💕: You walked into the kitchen half-dressed. On a Monday. After a weekend where we barely left bed. So, yes.

You: Oh no. What will I wear tomorrow?

Mine💕:  Nothing, if you’re trying to get me to skip work.

Your cheeks heat—part laughter, part memory, part anticipation. The texts keep going, drifting more playful, more suggestive, until you're both balancing professionalism with escalating tension.

Eventually, somewhere between paperwork and lunch, he sends one last message.

Mine💕: I’m picking up dinner tonight. So you can go straight to not wearing anything when I get home.

You don’t reply immediately. Just stare at your screen, biting back a smile.

But oh yeah—you’re both very much looking forward to tonight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You get home before him. The house is quiet, the kind of peaceful that makes you want to hum to yourself while moving through it. Zayne said he’d bring dinner, so technically you didn’t have to do anything—but a sudden idea takes hold somewhere between opening the fridge and spotting the unused chocolate in the cupboard.

Dessert.

You’ll make dessert.

Well… a dessert.

You tie on the apron—his apron, naturally. It's one of those neutral-toned ones with deep pockets and a tie that loops around your waist twice. The only thing beneath it is skin and a whole lot of mischief. It’s half a joke—just the apron, no clothes—but it doesn’t stop you from fluffing your hair and checking the mirror before you start.

You’re not just teasing. You want to see what that calm, steady husband of yours does when he walks in and finds his wife waiting with nothing but his apron.

The baking part goes better than expected. It helps that you’ve done this before, and that you know exactly how he likes his sweets, although he’ll eat any sweet you give him and this is just talking about actual food.

You’re plating them when you hear the lock click.

The door swings open. Zayne steps in, dinner in hand, something warm and likely perfectly portioned. His eyes lift—routine, casual—until they register what they’re seeing.

He stops mid-step.

You’re standing there at the kitchen counter, apron tied neatly, dessert on display. The light catches your skin, and maybe it’s your imagination, but the air seems to still for a moment.

He blinks.

“Welcome home, husband,” you say, voice light, innocent.

He sets the takeout bag down on the nearest surface. Doesn’t even glance at it. Just walks straight toward you, loosing up the tie on his shirt, walking slow and with controlled, like he's handling something fragile. Or dangerous.

His hands slide to your waist—cool, sure. His voice is low, close to your ear. “I thought we agree on nothing.”

“Isn’t this more exciting?” you murmur, tipping your head up just slightly, pulling at his tie.

He kisses you like he has no intention of stopping. And for a long, breathless stretch, he doesn’t.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time you actually sit down to eat, the food is lukewarm and the desserts are nearly forgotten. You both laugh about it, halfway through your second bites, a little dazed, your hair mussed, his neck full of kiss marks. Both of you barely dress.

The kitchen still smells like sugar and vanilla.

And Zayne? He still hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s just past midnight when he wakes up.

No gasp, no cry—just a sharp inhale through clenched teeth and the sudden tension of his body beside you. You feel it immediately, even through sleep. The shift in the bed. The way his hand curls slightly, like he's still trying to hold onto something that slipped away.

You roll toward him, reaching out before your eyes are fully open. “Zayne?”

He blinks once, twice, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the streetlamp outside. His breath is still uneven. There’s sweat at his hairline, his shirt sticking to his chest, his jaw tight.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You don't reply at first. Just press your forehead to his shoulder, your arm slipping around his middle.

“Was it… another nightmare?”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the nod. It's small. Heavy.

It doesn't happen often—not anymore. But every now and then, something cracks through that carefully maintained calm. Close calls. An impossible case. A moment when the scalpel trembled, or worse, when it nearly slipped. Or sometimes... sometimes it's you. A memory he tries not to relive, no matter how old or how faint.

“You’re here,” you whisper, voice soft against his skin. “We’re safe.”

His arms come around you after that. Slow, a little hesitant—like he still thinks he doesn’t deserve to be comforted—but when he exhales, it’s shakier than he means it to be.

“You were…” he trails off. “In the OR. I—”

He stops again. Shakes his head.

You don't need the rest. You've heard enough versions of this dream to know where it leads. And you know exactly how deeply it sinks into him, even hours after it ends.

So you pull him closer, shifting until you’re almost on top of him, fingers threading through his damp hair, grounding him. “You made vows,” you say, quiet but steady. “So did I.”

His hands press against your back, anchoring. He doesn’t reply, but you feel the moment he lets go of the dream. Not entirely—but enough. Enough to stay here. With you.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love.”

You press a kiss just below his ear. “Not now. Not ever.”

And finally, finally, he breathes like he believes it.

He falls asleep not long after, arms still around you, the warmth of your body pulling him back to steadiness. And you stay like that, wide awake, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest.

You know he’ll be okay in the morning.

He always is.

But you stay anyway—because that’s what you promised.

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Bonus

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The event is held in one of the hospital’s private conference halls—high ceilings, too-bright lighting, waitstaff weaving between clusters of formally dressed doctors and researchers. There’s soft music playing in the background, more ambiance than melody, and a spread of hors d’oeuvres on white-clothed tables no one quite dares to touch.

Zayne stands beside you, tailored suit perfect down to the pressed collar. He blends in seamlessly with the rest of them—composed, unbothered, clipboard conversations flowing around him like water. But you can feel it in the way his hand rests at the small of your back. Gentle. Protective. Anchored.

He leans in slightly when someone approaches. “This is my wife,” he says simply, voice calm but warm.

You hear the words more than once tonight—always offhand, always soft. But every time, they catch you a little off guard. My wife. It shouldn’t feel so new anymore, but somehow, coming from him, in this polished, clinical space where everything is usually professional and precise… it does.

It feels like a tiny rebellion.

You smile, offer your hand, try to keep your voice steady as you greet whoever he introduces you to—department heads, residents, researchers you only know by surname on articles he's sent you. And you do well enough, even as you notice the subtle double takes. The way eyes flick between the two of you. Like no one expected this pairing. Or maybe they just didn’t expect you.

“She’s even prettier than you described,” one of the cardiologists from another hospital murmurs with a smile, a little in awe.

Before you can react—before you can wave it off or stammer something awkward—Zayne’s already answering.

“She always is.”

He doesn’t smile when he says it. Doesn’t smirk or make a show of it. He just says it like it’s fact. Like gravity. And suddenly you’re the one left flustered, heat blooming in your face.

Zayne offers you a drink then—water, always observant—and you accept it more for the distraction than anything else. His fingers brush yours briefly. Steady. Sure.

Later, during a lull in the presentations, you find yourself pressed shoulder to shoulder with him by the tall windows overlooking the city. He doesn’t say much, just watches the traffic below. But his fingers curl around yours, his thumb tracing the back of your hand slowly, absentmindedly.

You lean into him a little.

“You know you’re going to make it hard for me to show my face around here again,” you murmur.

“Why?” he asks mildly, but there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You just… announced me like I was the highlight of the year.”

“You are.”

You laugh, bury your face briefly against his arm, cheeks still warm. He says nothing else, just lets you stay close, thumb still moving in slow circles. The rest of the evening passes in the blur of names and speeches, but you hold on to that moment.

To the quiet certainty in his voice.

To being his wife—not just on paper, but here. Beside him. In his world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

They're too cute for their own good 😩🫶🏻 I'll be back 👀

[xcaptainhannax]

Where It Hurts The Most (joel miller x reader)

Plot: Abby swears she only wants Joel dead—until she sees how much she means to him. Blinded by grief and rage, she changes her plan, targeting her instead. Joel powerless to stop the fallout is forced to watch as Abby wants him to feel the same crushing loss she once did.

Warnings: violence, blood, torture

A/N: I know Abby mentions multiple times that she only wants Joel BUT this idea came to mind and yet again i can do whatever the fuck i want SO yeah !! i hope you like this new twisted idea, joel is alive tho so that counts for something, right? RIGHT??

The ski lodge reeked of blood and gunpowder.

Joel's breathing was ragged as he struggled against the ropes biting into his wrists. Blood slicked his side — Abby hadn’t wasted time. When they'd first dragged him in, she'd made sure to beat him half to death, cracking ribs, splitting his brow, breaking him down piece by piece.

He didn’t know if the pool beneath him was mostly his or someone else's.

Ellie’s muffled screams and Dina’s frantic shouts echoed around the wooden beams of the cabin, but Joel’s focus was locked on one thing: you, forced to your knees before Abby, bruised and bloodied.

"I was just going to kill him," Abby said, voice trembling with rage as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Quick. Clean."

From across the room, Owen stepped forward, hesitation thick in his voice. "Abby — this isn’t what we talked about. We came for Joel. Just Joel."

"Yeah," Manny added warily, shifting his weight, his rifle lowering slightly. "Don't make this messier."

Abby barely heard them. She glanced down at you — saw the way your eyes, swollen and bloodshot, still searched for Joel — and her expression twisted into something dark, something cruel.

"But that’s not enough anymore," she muttered.

Joel jerked against his bonds so violently the chair scraped loudly against the floor. "You fuckin’ touch her, I swear to God—" His voice broke into a growl, hoarse and burning from the earlier beating.

Abby laughed, cold and hollow. "You’re gonna watch, Joel. You’re gonna feel everything I felt when you killed my father."

"No!" Ellie screamed, fighting against the arms pinning her down. "Please — please, don't!"

Abby barely glanced at her before turning back to you. She grabbed you roughly by the collar, yanking you closer. You didn’t cry, didn’t beg — you just kept your eyes on Joel.

Trying to be strong for him.

The first punch landed hard, sending your head snapping back. Joel bellowed your name, straining so hard that blood seeped from his wrists where the rope cut into his skin.

Another blow. And another.

Joel was roaring, begging, his voice hoarse and broken. Ellie was sobbing, Dina trying to twist free from the guards holding her.

"I’m gonna kill you!" Joel swore, voice cracking. "I’m gonna rip you apart!"

But Abby didn’t stop — not until your body slumped, weak and trembling, against the floorboards.

Joel’s vision blurred — from blood, from rage, from helplessness — until he heard it: Gunshots.

The door to the lodge slammed open, splintering against the wall.

Tommy burst inside, rifle raised, already firing. Behind him, Jackson patrols flooded the lodge like a tide — someone must have sent a signal.

The room exploded into chaos — gunfire, screaming, bodies scrambling for cover.

Joel didn’t think. He tore at the ropes until the chair tipped over, smashing against the floor. He rolled, gasping, side burning, and his hands — bloody and half-numb — finally found freedom.

He crawled to you, heart thundering so loud he couldn't hear anything else.

"Baby—" His hands cradled your face, sticky with blood and too cold. "No, no, stay with me. Look at me."

You blinked sluggishly, pupils slow to respond — but you were alive.

"Joel," you whispered, voice cracked and broken, but so alive it made him choke on a sob.

"I got you," he rasped, pressing his forehead against yours. "You're okay, baby. You’re okay."

Ellie and Dina were suddenly there too, shielding you as Tommy’s voice barked orders across the lodge.

And then Joel heard it — a sharp yell, a struggle — and through the broken beams of the lodge, he saw Abby trying to escape, blood trailing from a wound at her side. She shoved past a patrolman, frantic.

Tommy didn't hesitate.

One clean shot rang out.

Abby stumbled, then crumpled to the floor without a sound.

Joel stared — not with triumph, not even with hatred — just with a hollow, aching finality. She would never hurt anyone again.

The fight moved outside. The lodge grew quieter, except for your shallow breathing and Joel’s broken prayers.

Ellie clung to your side, Dina pressing cloth to your wounds, and Joel held you like he could will you whole again — ignoring the searing pain in his ribs, the way blood trickled down his temple.

Maybe he couldn't undo the pain Abby had caused. Maybe nothing would ever be the same.

But you were alive. And for Joel Miller, that was enough to keep fighting.

[pensthoughts]

Was wondering if you could write getting high with bsf teen van after school and there’s some tension 🙈 you can pick where that leads to!

smoke break | v.p

a/n: i've actually had very bad experiences these two times i got high and made awful decisions which made me never do it again. so writing this was like exposure therapy for me ❤️ maybe i'll try it again now, who knows! hope u enjoy 😊 pairing: van palmer x reader summary: when practice gets canceled, you and van slip into an easy night of movies, but the quiet tension between you finally tips over into something neither of you can ignore. word count: 2.3k

as soon as you found out practice was cancelled, you and van didn't even have to say it out loud. it was friday, your parents were out of town for one of those always-important work trips, and the house was too quiet not to be filled with van palmer's voice.

she showed up less than an hour after you got home, knocking twice before letting herself in, like she always did—arms full of snacks, a half-zipped backpack slung over one shoulder, and that crooked smile that made you feel like something was about to happen.

"hey," she said, her voice light as she kicked her sneakers off at the door. "what's the plan?"

you gave her a smile as she walked in, already heading for the basement steps. "move marathon, of course. but only if you promise you didn't bring that vampire movie again."

van raised an eyebrow as she tossed her backpack down onto the couch. "the lost boys? you've seen it a million times, and you still complain. you're just mad because you secretly like it."

"not true," you grinned, folding your arms. "it's all just leather jackets and bad haircuts. i don't get it."

she flopped down on the couch with a casual, exaggerated sigh. "it's a classic, alright? you need to learn to appreciate it."

you shook your head, trying not to laugh. "alright, whatever. as long as you brought cluless, i'll forgive you."

"that's better," van smirked, pulling a few vhs tapes out of her backpack. "i'm willing to compromise."

she popped in clueless, and you both settled in, the warmth of the room and the soft hum of the movie making everything feel a little more intimate. the basement smelled faintly of cedar and clean laundry, the familiar scent of home. you sank into the couch as van tossed a bags of pretzels on the table, cracking open a coke.

there was a comfortable silence as you both dug into the snacks, but there was something else there, something quiet, like a spark in the air that neither of you had expected. maybe it was the way she was sitting a little too close, or how her knee kept brushing against yours. either way, it wasn't going unnoticed.

van stretched her arms above her head, yawning dramatically. "alright," she said, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. "i brought something fun."

you raised an eyebrow, already guessing what she meant. "i thought we were just watching movies?"

"we are," she said, pulling something small from her backpack and setting it on the coffee table. it was a small, familiar tin. "but movies are better with this."

you felt a little grin spread across your face. "you're a bad influence."

"i know," she smirked, taking out the contents and starting to roll, "that's why you keep me around."

you watched her work with practiced ease, your mind wandering as she did. the rhythmic sound of her movements felt oddly hypnotic—the way her fingers danced over the paper, the quick flick of her wrist as she sealed the roll. she didn't even look up at you, but you couldn't look away. her concentration was so casual, yet everything about her seemed to demand your attention.

"are you sure about this?" you asked, your voice quieter now, almost like you were suddenly unsure. you'd never done this with anyone else, but with van, it felt like things were always on the edge of something. you weren't sure what it was, but it made everything feel more intense.

van finally glanced up at you, catching your eye for a moment. her lips curled into a playful grin, but there was something else too—something a little softer. "what, you're scared?"

you shrugged, trying to play it cool. "not scared. just...making sure i don't end up unconscious on the floor or something."

van let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and familiar, but her eyes stayed locked on your a little longer than usual. she leaned back against the couch, her shoulder brushing yours as she passed you the rolled-up joint. "i'm pretty sure i'd notice if you were about to pass out, but no promises about the giggles."

your fingers brushed as you took it from her, and the touch lingered for just a second too long. you met her gaze, and the air around you both seemed to thicken with something unspoken. your pulse picked up, and you quickly looked away, focusing on lighting the end.

the smoke curled upward, the thick, warm haze swirling between you, but the quiet tension remained, humming low in the background. you exhaled slowly, watching the wisps float toward the ceiling, and passed it back to her. she took a slow drag, her lips parting just enough as she inhaled. you noticed the way she held the smoke in for a moment longer than necessary, eyes half-closed, like she was savoring the moment. when she released it, the soft sigh that followed made your stomach flutter.

van’s eyes flickered to you, her gaze dragging slowly over your face. “trust me,” she said, her voice a little softer than usual. “movies are definitely better with this.”

you chuckled, the sensation of the smoke filling your lungs sending a warm, buzzing feeling through you. it felt nice, almost too nice. there was something different in the air now, like the space between you was charged, but neither of you was acknowledging it directly.

you shifted on the couch, trying to brush it off, but the feeling didn’t go away. if anything, it only seemed to grow stronger.

van took another slow drag, her fingers wrapped around the joint delicately. without looking at you, she lifted it to your lips, her hand moving carefully toward your mouth.

for a split second, she hesitated, and you both froze — your eyes locking in the dim light of the basement. it was a soft, slow gesture, almost like a question. you weren’t sure if she was asking for permission or if she was simply offering, but you didn’t pull away.

you leaned in slightly, meeting her halfway, and she placed it against your lips with a gentle touch. the warmth of her hand lingered, and the air between you both seemed to hold its breath. when you exhaled, your lips brushed her fingers just barely, and you both lingered in the silence for a moment, both aware of how close you were.

van’s eyes flickered to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. “didn’t think you’d let me get that close,” she said with a smirk, but her voice was breathless.

you swallowed hard, heart racing, but you matched her teasing tone. “i trust you.”

van’s grin softened, and she settled in closer, her shoulder brushing against yours once again. she passed the joint back to you and let her fingers graze over your wrist, her touch light but intentional. the simple contact sent a ripple through you, and for a moment, you forgot about the movie, the snacks, even the quiet hum of the basement. it was just you and her now, sitting too close for comfort, sharing something unspoken.

you took another drag, your fingers brushing hers again, and this time neither of you pulled away. the tension between you both grew thicker, and despite the comfortable warmth of the smoke, the air felt electric. the slightest shift in your bodies, the smallest movement, seemed amplified.

van leaned back slightly, her head tipping toward you just enough that her hair brushed against your cheek. you felt your breath catch, the proximity making everything feel too real. the moment stretched out, quiet but full of unspoken words, like you both knew something was on the verge of happening but neither of you wanted to be the first to cross that line.

van leaned back slightly, her head tipping toward you just enough that her hair brushed against your cheek. you felt your breath catch, the proximity making everything feel too real. the moment stretched out, quiet but full of unspoken words.

the movie played softly in the background, but you weren’t really paying attention to it anymore. it was just you and her now, the space between you two shrinking with every second.

her hand, which had been resting by your wrist, slowly shifted closer, fingers grazing over your forearm. the touch was light, almost tentative, but it still sent a jolt of heat through you.

you glanced at her, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. “what are you doing?”

van’s eyes met yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything. she was so close now, her breath warm against your skin.

she smirked but it didn’t reach her eyes, not entirely. “just... seeing if you’re still freaked out.”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep the tension from showing on your face. “i’m not freaked out,” you said, though you could feel the rapid thrum of your pulse, betraying your words.

van’s gaze flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you sure?” she asked, her voice quieter now. the air felt thick, like something was hanging in the balance.

you swallowed, your heart hammering in your chest. “i don’t know,” you said, barely above a whisper.

her fingers grazed your shoulder, her hand coming to rest on your neck. the touch was slow, cautious, like she was testing the waters. you felt her thumb lightly brush over the skin there, the softest of touches that sent a shiver down your spine.

you stayed still for a moment, unsure whether you should pull away or let this happen.

van’s voice broke the silence, low and teasing, but with something else underneath. “i won’t bite. promise.”

her lips were so close now, barely an inch away from yours, and all you could focus on was the heat radiating between you both. you could feel the nervousness in the way she lingered, like she was waiting for you to make the next move.

everything felt different now, like this was a line neither of you had crossed before, but it was right there, too tempting to ignore.

you didn’t say anything. instead, you leaned in just a little bit, the smallest movement, your lips brushing hers for the first time.

it was brief, just a whisper of contact, but it left you both frozen for a moment, like you were both still trying to figure out what this meant.

van’s hand was still on your neck, and when you didn’t pull away, she took a deep breath, her gaze softening. “is this... okay?” she asked, her voice quieter, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it.

you nodded, unable to trust yourself to speak.

then, before you could second-guess it, she leaned in and it felt like there was purpose behind it. her lips were gentle at first, like she was trying to figure out if you were both really ready for this.

the kiss deepened slowly, hesitantly, neither of you rushing it. it was soft, almost tentative, like you both needed to be sure this was real. van’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you in closer, and you let her, the space between you two vanishing completely.

it felt strange and new and exactly what you’d both been avoiding for so long. you could feel the warmth of her lips, the gentle pressure of her hand on your waist, and it made everything else feel distant, like this was the only thing that mattered in that moment.

van shivered at the touch, and her lips parted just enough for you to deepen the kiss. it was still slow, both of you tentative, exploring, but it didn’t take long for the tension to build.

van’s fingers dug into the side of your waist, pulling you flush against her, as if she couldn’t get close enough. you could feel the heat of her skin, the way her chest rose and fell in rhythm with yours.

you didn’t break the kiss, but the air between you was thick now, charged. your breaths were shaky, the only sound in the room the soft rush of your own heartbeats.

after a while you pulled away slowly, both of you out of breath, but neither of you seemed ready to break the moment entirely. the room felt warmer now and you couldn’t tell if it was from the kiss or the haze you were both in.

van’s forehead rested against yours, and she gave a soft laugh, breathless and a little unsure. “wow,” she murmured, her voice low and airy, like she was floating.

you nodded, still trying to make sense of everything. “yeah…” your hand rested lightly on her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart under your fingertips.

the weight of the silence between you felt different now, less tense and more… relaxed, as if everything had shifted in that one kiss. it was like a fog had settled over both of you, and the world outside the basement didn’t seem to matter anymore.

van pulled back slightly, her eyes searching yours with a softness you hadn’t noticed before. “you’re not… freaked out, are you?” she asked, her voice a little more uncertain than usual.

you shook your head, smiling softly. “no,” you said, your voice low but steady. “i’m good. are you?”

van’s lips curved up into that familiar half-smile. “yeah… i think i’m good too.”

you both sat there for a while, just breathing, your bodies still close but not touching. the air was thick, and even though you weren’t saying much, it felt like something had shifted. the night stretched out ahead of you, but neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave it behind.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[dksfml]

EIGHTEEN - YANG JUNGWON (PART II)

pairing: fboy!jungwon x reader summary: where on your 18th birthday, you receive a blessing that lets you see the future, only to find yourself married to jungwon, the college heartthrob you’ve barely spoken to, with a child calling you mom. genre: university / college au, soulmate au, fantasy, fluff, slight angst, love triangle, pining, slow burn word count: 4.8k playlist: 18 - one direction, stuck with u - ariana grande & justin bieber, you belong with me - ts, lavender haze - ts, wish that i could - umi, meddle about - chase atlantic A/N: forgive me if this part's a bit short. i promise to make it up to you in the next ones, hehe

masterlist.

This is a work of fiction. It does not represent real people, events, or systems. Any similarities are purely coincidental, and all elements are created for fantasy purposes only.

The drama club’s room smelled faintly of old velvet curtains and cheap perfume.

Jungwon was half-distracted, mind somewhere else entirely, when the girl he barely remembered the name of tugged at his collar, lips finding the side of his neck. Her fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt, nails scraping lightly across his skin.

He let her.

Only because he wanted to get this over with.

The only reason he even agreed to meet her again today was to retrieve his wallet. The one he stupidly left at her dorm last night. He didn’t even plan on staying longer than necessary. Hell, he didn’t even plan on seeing her again. Jungwon didn’t do repeats.

But when she leaned in too close, smirking against his ear and said, "At least let me give you an advanced birthday treat, babe," he froze.

He should have walked away right then.

Instead, when she kept pushing, fingers pulling at his belt loops, mouth chasing his, he kissed her. Hard. Too hard.

Just to shut her up.

A mistake.

A fucking mistake.

Because that’s when the door creaked open.

And everything inside him seized up.

Through the tangled mess of limbs and desperation, his eyes locked onto a figure standing stiff at the door.

You.

Wide-eyed. Frozen. Like you’d just witnessed a car crash you couldn’t look away from.

Fuck.

He pulled back like he’d been electrocuted, his breath catching sharp in his throat.

“Y/N?” he blurted, voice rough and broken.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Just turned too fast and disappeared down the hallway, footsteps fading like a nightmare.

The girl beside him clicked her tongue, smoothing down her skirt, unfazed. She leaned against the desk casually, fixing her lipstick in the reflection of a trophy case.

“She’s pretty," she said, voice light, teasing. "Is that her?"

Jungwon stared at her, still breathing hard. “What?”

She tilted her head, smiling like she knew something he didn’t. “The girl who rejected you during freshmen year. Jake told me.”

His fists clenched at his sides. He stared at her, a million unsaid things clawing up his throat.

“I wasn’t rejected,” Jungwon snapped, sharper than he meant to. “And Jake doesn’t have the right to say shit. He’s in the same fucking position.”

The girl only chuckled, slipping her phone back into her bag like she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb and walked away.

Jungwon stood there for a long moment, the stale, suffocating air pressing down on him.

He had come here for a wallet.

He had stayed because he was stupid.

He kissed a girl he didn’t even like because he thought it didn’t matter.

But it mattered.

Because for the first time in a long time, something actually fucking mattered.

And he might have just ruined it before it even had the chance to start.

It started small.

The kind of thing you wouldn’t even notice unless you were paying attention.

There was a vending machine tucked beside the science hall. Old, humming, half-forgotten. Students barely used it unless they were desperate between classes. But Jungwon did. And he always bought the same thing: the yellow-pack gummy bears.

Soft, sweet, just the right chew.

Something about them tasted like how he imagined being a kid felt simple and untouched.

Except, lately, they were always gone.

He’d walk up between lectures, coins ready, tap the scratched glass — and nothing.

Every other snack untouched.

Every other candy still neatly stacked.

Just the yellow gummies, empty.

It pissed him off a little.

He even once smacked the side of the machine in frustration, earning a few weird glances from passing students. He ignored them, he had bigger problems.

One day, he was earlier than usual. The hallways were half-empty, the vending machine still blinking lazily in the corner. And there you were.

Crouched low, head tilted, tapping the glass thoughtfully like you were deep in negotiation with the machine. In your hand? Two packs of the yellow gummies.

And in your bag? He caught the flash of even more, at least three, four crammed into the front pocket like a guilty secret.

You turned, mid-stuffing the last pack into your bag. Eyes meeting. Both of you frozen.

He recognized you vaguely. Freshman orientation, Jake's friend, the girl who laughed at his jokes but never stuck around for long.

And now? Now you were the damn vending machine thief.

You blinked, the barest flicker of surprise crossing your face before you straightened up calmly, like you weren’t doing anything remotely suspicious. You were.

Jungwon crossed his arms, smirking before he could stop himself.

"Leave some for the rest of us, maybe?"

You shrugged, not even guilty. "Survival of the fittest."

He huffed out a laugh. "You're hoarding them."

"They're the best ones," you said simply, like it was obvious. "Supply and demand."

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. You were something else.

"I’ve been trying to buy those for a week," he said, mock offended.

"You should be faster," you replied, voice light, teasing, as you zipped your bag shut and slung it over your shoulder.

Before he could think of anything clever to say, you tossed one of the packs toward him. He caught it, stunned.

"Here," you said.

A peace offering.

Or maybe just a dare to keep up.

Then you walked away, steps light, disappearing down the hallway before he could ask your name.

He stood there for a second, the vending machine humming behind him, the yellow pack crinkling in his hand.

Slowly, he smiled.

He didn’t know much about you yet. Only that you liked the same gummy bears. And that you didn’t apologize for it.

But that tiny, stupid moment? It stuck. Burrowed somewhere he couldn't dig out later, no matter how many months passed.

And later, when people joked about how he must’ve had dozens of girls chasing after him, he just thought about you, walking away without a second glance, leaving him standing there like some idiot holding candy.

After that day at the vending machine, Jungwon started noticing you everywhere. At first, he told himself it was coincidence. The campus wasn’t that big. Maybe your paths just happened to cross. Maybe you just happened to sit two rows ahead of him in economics. Maybe you just happened to linger outside the drama clubroom, laughing too brightly with Sunoo.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He was looking for you now.

Tuning out the rest of the world, unconsciously drawn to the sound of your laugh, the flash of your bag stuffed with books and candy, the easy way you moved through life like you weren’t trying to impress anyone.

And you never noticed him.

Not really.

You barely even glanced his way.

He almost gave up then, almost let himself believe it was just a vending machine moment, a glitch in the universe that wasn’t meant to last.

Until rumors started.

Jake was courting you.

Jake, the golden boy with the easy smiles and a trail of admirers.

Jake, who was somehow close to you already.

Jake, who could make anyone fall for him if he really wanted to.

Jungwon told himself it didn’t matter. He lied.

It hurt.

More than it should have.

A stupid, sour sting every time he saw Jake walking next to you, tossing you candies or making you laugh in that easy, infuriating way of his.

So Jungwon, idiot that he was, joined the drama club. “I need the extracurricular points," he told everyone. Nobody believed him.

Mostly, he stuck to backstage work, fixing broken chairs, painting sets, running errands Sunoo barked at him with terrifying efficiency.

You were always around, helping, organizing, laughing. Sometimes you sat cross-legged on the stage sorting costume jewelry into plastic bins. Sometimes you passed him a bottle of water without looking. He said thank you quietly every time and you never noticed.

But he stayed anyway.

Because being near you, even if you didn’t see him, felt better than nothing at all.

Then one afternoon, everything shifted again.

He was fixing a crooked light rig when Sunoo’s voice rang out through the dusty club office.

"Y/N turned Jake down yesterday." Loud. Blunt. No room for misunderstanding.

The room went quiet. Someone gasped. Someone else whistled low.

Jungwon tightened his grip on the wrench. Heart slamming. Mind racing.

You turned Jake down?

"Yeah," another club member chimed in, dramatic as ever. "She said she's not ready for dating. Wants to focus on her studies first, plus she was thinking of running for the student council next year."

Sunoo laughed. "Classic Y/N. Always has her priorities straight."

Jungwon barely heard the rest.

All he could think was—

Maybe.

Maybe there was a chance.

Maybe he wasn’t as invisible as he thought.

He spent the whole night drafting letters he’d never send. Debating if he should say anything at all.

In the end, he didn’t write a love confession. He didn’t pour his heart out. He just kept it simple.

A bag of yellow gummy bears. And a note taped on it.

"I know this might not be the right time to give you something like this.

But I just wanted you to know,  you're interesting in every possible way.

You're the kind of person someone could admire quietly for a long time, even if the tides never turn in their favor.

I hope you keep smiling the way you do when you win arguments.

I hope you keep picking the yellow gummy bears, even if you have to fight for the last one.

No pressure.

No expectations.

Just... you deserve to know."

He left it in your locker early the next morning. Heart hammering. Hands shaking.

He thought maybe you’d know. Maybe the gummy bears would tip you off. Maybe you’d remember the stupid vending machine moment that never really left his mind.

Instead—

At lunch, he saw you. Marching across the courtyard. The bag of gummy bears clutched in your hand. Heading straight for Jake.

From where Jungwon sat on the stone steps by the library, he saw it unfold like a bad dream:

You smiling politely.

Talking softly.

Handing Jake the gummy bears back like they were some kind of apology.

And Jake—Jake just blinked, clearly confused, before awkwardly nodding and taking the bag.

You looked relieved.

Jake looked baffled.

Jungwon felt like something inside him cracked quietly open.

You thought Jake sent the gift.

You thought Jake wrote the letter.

And you turned it down.

Kindly. Gently.

And you never even knew it was him.

Later, Jake found him by the vending machines, tossing the crumpled bag onto Jungwon's lap.

"You’re a dumbass," Jake said, not unkindly.

"You should've put your name on it."

Then he left, leaving Jungwon alone with a silent, half-empty machine and a gummy bear pack that tasted a lot more bitter than sweet now.

Jungwon never said anything about it.

He just swallowed the rejection he was never even given the chance to earn.

And maybe that’s why now, standing years later in a messy drama room, when that girl tilted her head and said with a teasing smile—

"The girl who rejected you during freshmen year. Jake told me."

Because truth was… you never even knew it was him.

You never even saw him.

Not then.

Not yet.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Jungwon didn’t stop walking.

Down the hallway, past the bulletin boards, past the same scratched lockers he could’ve walked through blindfolded.

His fists curled tighter with every step.

Breath shallow. Mind buzzing.

He pushed outside, the night air slapping cold against his face. But the sick feeling in his gut didn’t go away.

He barely made it two steps across the courtyard when—

"Jungwon!"

He turned, shoulders stiff.

It was Sunoo, jogging up, frowning. "Dude, what happened? Why is Y/N storming out like she’s about to sue the entire drama club?"

Jungwon opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Rubbed a hand down his face.

"I messed up," he muttered finally, voice hoarse. "I didn’t mean for her to see... that."

Sunoo stared at him, mouth twitching like he wanted to ask a dozen questions but knew better.

Jungwon dug into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out the bright yellow pack, the gummy bears he'd bought earlier, before everything went to shit. Before he'd ruined it.

And then it hit him.

Today was your birthday.

You were supposed to have a good day.

You were supposed to laugh and smile and maybe — maybe — open your locker to find a stupid, cheesy pack of candy from someone who actually thought about you.

Instead, you found him like that.

Instead, he made you leave like your heart was breaking in real time.

A fresh wave of guilt slammed into him, sharp enough to make his stomach turn.

He shoved the pack into Sunoo’s hands, almost too rough.

"Give this to her," Jungwon said, jaw tight. "Tomorrow. Please."

Sunoo blinked down at it. "Uh. Okay? What is this, a bribe?"

Jungwon gave a humorless huff of air.

"Just... tell her I’m sorry. Tell her it’s from me."

Sunoo tucked the candy into his tote bag, still looking like he wanted to say more.

"I have to check our biochem lab results tomorrow," Jungwon added, half an excuse, half the truth. "I won’t see her before lunch."

Sunoo nodded slowly.

"You sure you don’t wanna just give it to her yourself?"

Jungwon shrugged helplessly.

"I don’t think she wants to see me right now."

A beat of silence.

The wind picked up, rattling the bare branches overhead.

Sunoo sighed, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Alright. I’ll make sure she gets it."

He started to turn away, then paused, glancing back with a small, lopsided smile.

"Oh—and, uh, advance happy birthday, Jungwon."

Jungwon managed the barest curve of a smile.

"Thanks."

And then he turned, hoodie pulled up against the cold, and disappeared into the night.

The morning Jungwon turned eighteen, the world stayed silent—for a moment.

The sun rose like it always did, pale and slow against the cracked skyline.

His apartment was still the same too: neat, spare, clean to the point of looking unlived-in. A couch, a low coffee table, a desk piled with textbooks he didn’t really touch anymore.

Nothing screamed special day.

Nothing at all.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the muted light seeping through his curtains.

In families like his, birthdays — eighteenth birthdays — were monumental.

Because here, you only got your blessing once.

It came exactly on your eighteenth birthday, and it never changed after that.

It was supposed to be a celebration. A doorway into the life you were meant to live. But in Jungwon’s family, it wasn’t magic. It wasn’t wonder.

It was a contract.

A cousin who awakened the ability to manipulate probability was immediately signed into risk management for the family's overseas holdings flown out within two weeks. An older sister who could predict crucial decisions before they happened became the sharpest negotiator in corporate mergers. An aunt who could sway opinions through subtle energy became a political lobbyist, shuffled from one continent to another, her life signed away to strategies and campaign wars.

The blessings were always bent, reshaped, weaponized.

Once your blessing appeared, you were sealed into it. Expected to serve it. Or get discarded quietly, like those who didn't "align" well enough.

Jungwon learned early not to hope. Hope made you vulnerable. Hope got you chained.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table.

🎉 Happy 18th Birthday, Jungwon 🎉

It's time to check your Blessing 💫

He stared at the screen but didn’t move.

Because once you checked it, there was no going back. Once the world saw what you were it would decide who you were.

The phone buzzed again.

A text from his mother.

[Mom]

Happy Birthday, my love. Remember, make today count. Everyone’s watching and waiting. We love you.

And then bleeding in like a crack through the wall  he heard it.

He can’t afford to screw this up. We’ve invested too much already. If it’s not useful, we’ll need to reassess him for overseas placements.

Jungwon stiffened.

It wasn’t a message.

It wasn’t in the text.

It was her thoughts.

He wasn’t reading her words, he was hearing the parts she didn’t say.

He sat there, frozen, as realization sank in.

With a slow, almost reluctant movement, Jungwon finally tapped the blinking notification on his phone.

The screen flashed once, then displayed in clean, gold lettering:

Blessing Activated: The ability to hear the thoughts of those you are conversing with.

And if he could hear it through this simple text conversation...

What would happen when he spoke to people in real life?

A sour, heavy feeling settled into his chest.

This blessing wasn't something he could turn on and off.

It wasn’t something he asked for.

And it sure as hell wasn’t going to make his life easier.

He pushed himself to stand, grabbing his jacket in a stiff, mechanical motion. Then powered off his phone.

When he left the apartment, the air outside was cold against his skin.

As he made his way down the street, he avoided conversation like it was poison. He ignored the greetings of the security guard in his building. He nodded mutely to the woman who sold coffee on the corner without saying a word.

Because he knew what it meant now. Because he knew the moment he exchanged words, he would hear the real thing hiding underneath. Not their smiles. Not their words. The truth they kept locked away.

And Jungwon had spent his whole life surrounded by that kind of duplicity. Family members who said "I'm proud of you" but thought "You better not ruin our name." Cousins who laughed over family dinners but secretly wished for each other's failures. An uncle who clapped him on the back and said "You’re lucky" while thinking "It should have been my son instead."

He grew up seeing it already. The way blessings, were twisted into weapons, into currency, into burdens too heavy to carry.

And now?

Now he would never be able to unhear any of it, would he?

By the time he reached the university, his head was already aching.

He remembered, vaguely, how Sunoo had clapped him on the shoulder yesterday, laughing, "Advance happy birthday, Jungwon!" before running off to one of his club meetings.

How easy it had been to smile back then.

He wished he could freeze himself in that moment before the world tilted sideways.

Now, everything felt heavier.

He was grateful for the excuse to be alone today. Hidden away in the lab under the pretense of gathering data for his project. The thick walls, the stale scent of old paper and chemicals, the silent machines, it was a kind of peace he didn’t realize he needed so badly.

Here, there were no conversations.

No words exchanged.

No truths bleeding through.

Just silence.

Finally.

Jungwon leaned back in his chair, staring up at the cracked ceiling tiles.

Was this what blessings were supposed to feel like? Or was this just another leash, dressed up like a gift?

He closed his eyes and exhaled quietly.

Happy birthday.

What a joke.

Jungwon stayed frozen by the wall, watching you cross the quad like you were some mirage that might dissolve if he blinked too hard. The lab data crinkled faintly in his fingers, forgotten. His brain, usually so sharp, so careful, now felt like someone had jammed it into slow motion.

Because you were here.

Because you had actually replied.

And he had heard it—your thoughts, clear as day, slicing through the usual static of the world.

Sorry I just saw this. Where are you now?

He’d read the text with a stone face. And underneath it, he heard it—the rush of your guilt, the tiny pang of something warmer, something unbearably human.

Not calculation. Not politics. Not some angle to manipulate him, like everyone else he grew up around.

You.

Just you.

The moment your gaze locked with his across the quad, something in his chest tightened painfully. He stuffed his phone into his pocket, stood straighter, forced himself to smirk internally even though his throat felt dry.

"Hey. President," he called, casual, careful.

Because he remembered the look in your eyes that day outside the drama room—how you flinched when he tried to apologize, how you wouldn’t even look at him.

The last time he said your name out loud, you flinched like he was something rotten.

So now it was just "President." A shield between you and him.

You approached, steady, distant. Your voice clipped when you asked about the lab data. Jungwon handed it over, his fingers brushing yours—and he felt it, again, like a ripple of static under his skin.

Your thoughts cracked into him like sunlight through a stained glass window.

"His hand’s warm."

"Focus, Y/N. You’re being ridiculous."

"Just get through this. Don’t let him see you melt like some idiot."

Jungwon almost dropped the papers.

He bit the inside of his cheek instead, forcing himself to stay calm, to stay cool. Because if he lost it now—if he said anything wrong—you might shut him out completely.

You thanked him in that same clipped voice, turned to leave.

And then he heard it.

"God, why does he have to look at me like that? I hate feeling like this"

"Ugh, why he out of all people? Everything was fine until what I saw last night.”

“Just forget it, Y/N. Forget that stupid future your blessing showed you. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“He’s not going to be your husband. No way. Watch me prove fate wrong.”

Jungwon's world tilted.

Husband? Your husband?

His instincts scrambled for something, anything, to tether him back to earth, to slow the pounding in his chest. The words just slipped out, raw and unsteady, the first thing his brain could grab onto.

“…You saw the file?”

You paused. Nodded. Muttered, “It’s good.”

Then you walked away.

Jungwon stood there, rooted to the spot, heart hammering against his ribs so loud he thought someone might hear it.

Because for the first time since he woke up this morning, with the whole damn world feeling like it was pried open, every thought bleeding through the noise, didn’t feel suffocating.

That night, Jungwon’s dorm was too quiet, but his mind is completely the opposite.

Jungwon sat hunched on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves half-pulled over his knuckles, phone glowing dim in his hand. He’d read your message probably a hundred times.

"Sorry I just saw this. Where are you now?"

So casual. So harmless. But the memory of your voice, your clipped tone from earlier, the way your eyes didn’t quite meet his. All of it kept repeating in his head like a glitch in a dream he couldn’t wake up from.

And worse than the silence was the part he couldn’t shake.

Husband.

The word had lodged somewhere in his chest and refused to leave.

He didn’t even realize he was grinning like an idiot until his reflection caught in the dark window. Quickly, he sobered, scolding himself but it was useless. That voice—your voice—echoed in his head with too much heat.

She saw a future where I was her husband.

She thought about me. Dreamed about me.

She didn’t just push me away for no reason.

His thumb hovered over your contact.

He wasn’t supposed to use his blessing like this. He knew it. It was too intimate. Too invasive. But tonight, he needed to understand. Because your voice inside his head didn’t sound like hate. It sounded like fear. And want.

He opened the chat.

[9:47 PM]

hey.

it’s jungwon.

He hit send, then hesitated.

Don’t text her this late, idiot. You’ll just look desperate.

But what if she thinks you don’t care?

He sent another.

thanks for checking the file.

Still nothing.

He tapped his leg nervously, eyes locked on the screen. His thoughts were a mess with half apologies and half what-ifs.

are you still mad about yesterday.

it’s fine if you are. just wanted to say i wasn’t trying to... make you uncomfortable or anything.

didn’t know you’d walk in.

The reply came fast. Faster than he expected.

[Y/N]

Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t make me uncomfortable.

I’ve seen worse.

But your thoughts betrayed you, spilling into him like sparks on skin.

Liar. I felt like my lungs collapsed when I saw him.

Because seeing him with someone else felt like a punch in the gut. Because it confirmed he’d never be mine. Even if the blessing said otherwise.

Jungwon’s heart thudded, warm and dizzy. You wanted him. Maybe not openly, maybe not consciously, but it was there. Real and raw.

His ears burned. He grinned against his knuckles.

He typed again.

you sure? you looked like you saw a ghost.

Because I did, okay? You were the ghost of that stupid dream. That version of you who held my hand and whispered all those sweet things.

And then I saw you tangled up with someone else like a slap of reality. God, maybe it wasn’t a vision at all. Maybe it was just a stupid delusion and I was the idiot who let it mean something.

His smile faded, just a bit. He wanted to explain. He wanted to reach into your thoughts and pull that version of him out, hand him to you like a promise.

Instead, you answered.

[Y/N]

I was just surprised. That’s all.

Another lie. Another flicker of your truth curled under it:

You make me nervous.

You make me mad.

But worse, you make me want to hope.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

A soft laugh bubbled from Jungwon’s throat. It felt... new. Not like the practiced chuckles he gave to classmates or the stiff polite ones he reserved for teachers. This one felt like sunshine cracking open in his chest.

sunoo said you looked pissed.

[Y/N]

Well, maybe tell Sunoo to mind his business.

That little traitor.

But... he’s not wrong.

I was pissed. Still am. But also, ugh. Why do I want him to keep texting me? NO, every text from him makes my head boil.

His chest ached in the sweetest, most unbearable way.

He barely realized what he was typing next.

you don’t like me much, do you.

The silence stretched just long enough to make him nervous. But your thoughts answered before your fingers did.

I don’t know how to not like you. I don’t know how I feel about you. That’s the problem.

You make me mad. But you also make my hands shake.

He sucked in a breath.

You were trying so hard to protect yourself. And yet, your walls had tiny cracks and through them, he could feel your heartbeat echoing like his.

[Y/N]

I don’t really know you.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Jungwon stared at those six words for a long time. And when he finally replied, it came from somewhere deeper.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

then maybe let me fix that.

The words were barely on the screen before your thoughts fluttered again.

What does that even mean?

Is this how he talks to the other girls? That easy, casual charm?

God, I hate this. I hate how I want it to be different with me.

Is it stupid… that a part of me wants to say yes?

Jungwon pressed the phone to his chest, eyes closing for a second.

For once, the world was quiet.

Except for the soft, dangerous hope blooming between your mind and his.

And god… he hoped you could feel it too.

That night, Jungwon thought maybe his blessing wasn’t so bad after all. Not loud. Not suffocating. Just... quiet enough to feel like something sacred.

He fell asleep on his birthday without telling anyone what he’d received. No big announcement, no family expectation, no performance. Just him, alone with the memory of your thoughts that are honest and vulnerable echoing softly in his chest.

It might’ve been his favorite birthday yet.

Because for the first time in a long time, he dreamed not of pressure, pleasure, or perfection, but of you.

And when morning came, groggy and golden through his window, the first thing that surfaced in his mind wasn’t the dread of responsibility.

It was you.

Now, hours later, that same girl—the one who’d occupied his mind all night, maybe even all these years—was clinging to the back of his shirt, arms wrapped around his waist as his motorbike hummed down the empty road.

And Jungwon smiled, wind in his hair, heart louder than the engine.

masterlist.

sorry for another cliffhanger hehe, notes and comments are very much appreciated :D

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[kingkat12]

consequences (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: masturbation/syntribation, humiliation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, punishments, Roman is so confusing that he needs his own warning

summary: you knew this was coming-- Mr. Godfrey was never planning on letting you get away with your stunt last Friday, anyway.

word count: 7,826

← previous chapter |

a/n: I'm back!! hope you enjoy Mr. Godfrey being an ass as much as me tihi<3333 writing this series is making me realize new things about myself lmao

... No, there was no way. 

None, whatsoever.

There was no way in hell that Mr. Godfrey could've known what he saw last Friday. He was just messing with me, and his timing was simply diabolical, right? I kept staring at him, waiting for him to say something, to give me a sign, anything, because there was just no fucking way, yet I got nothing.

My nails were freshly manicured. French tips. Lilac. Just as he told me to do them. My hair was free of any clips, I was wearing another one of my pencil skirts, and I had done everything he had asked of me to a tee-- wasn't that warranted some special attention? The more I craved some sort of acknowledgement, the more it made me feel like I was back in high school, getting yet another makeover to impress some boy I liked. 

But Mr. Godfrey wasn't just some boy; he was my boss, who had also happened to have seen me cum. 

Fuck.

The conference table was littered with printouts, name tags, notepads, and the weight of my own regret. Mr. Godfrey sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, coffee in hand, flipping casually through the briefing I had prepared like we were equals. He was acting as though Friday had never happened, as if I hadn't come undone beneath his green gaze, and as if he hadn't sent that email, or seen me do... that.

He tapped a finger against a margin before he spoke, his voice cutting through the silence; "This section on oil pricing... good work,"

What? Was he complimenting me? Was Mr. Godfrey maybe also having a brain aneurysm? "Thank you, sir," I breathed. My stomach churned like I had swallowed frogs for breakfast, and my leg was bouncing like I was waiting for a bomb to go off-- technically, I was. 

But Mr. Godfrey didn't say anything more. His lips twitched, almost in approval. Almost. He kept going over my notes, over and over, with a calmness I hadn't seen in him before. "And this paragraph is cute," he said, holding the page up to me like a parent showing off a child's bad drawing. "Makes us sound like we don't eat our young."

"I can-- I can reword it, sir?"

"No," he huffed, putting it down with a smirk. "Leave it. It won't help the business if they think this is a daycare for fucktards."

"I don't think anyone thinks this is a daycare for fucktards," I tried, my voice a mere whisper. I didn't dare to speak any louder, as though that'd risk him uncovering something else about me that I didn't want him to know. "I think everyone can see that you're a very serious man, sir."

Mr. Godfrey didn't look at me, didn't acknowledge my soft tone. He just sipped his coffee and continued flipping through the prep notes with ease. "I am," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "Serious people run things. They don't beg to be seen." Then, almost lazily, like he could hide the intent, he added; "Though some people--" he gestured vaguely, like he meant the air, or maybe the entire office; "--seem to confuse silence for invisibility."

My breath got cut off in my throat like someone had karate-chopped my trachea.

He knew.

Fuck.

He knew.

But how the fuck did he know?! How could he have known what he saw? How on earth did he figure it out? No one ever had, so how had he? How did he even know what he was looking at in that moment?!

My brain was actively shattering, falling apart, and I felt like I was scrambling to shove the pieces back into one collective heap. However, on the other hand, Mr. Godfrey was going on as though he hadn't verbally slapped me across the face with my own doings, and he flipped to the next page of the document as though he had said nothing at all. "I'd cut this stat in half," he said, tapping his thumb against the margin. "We don't want them thinking we're desperate."

I could barely swallow my spit, let alone answer. "Yes, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey hummed; "You'll join me for the meeting, by the way," He turned another page. "You'll do the introductions. Smile. Keep eye contact. Don't fidget. I can't have our guests seeing you playing snake on your computer, so you'll be by my side."

My heart was somewhere on the floor. "Sir, I have never done that!--"

"Try not to stutter," he added, his tone one of discipline. "And keep your hands steady if he asks for a coffee, you have a history of almost spilling stuff. Let's just say I'm relieved you didn't apply to be a surgeon. So, I suggest you try thinking of something... soothing."

My heart hiccupped-- soothing?

Soothing?!

Mr. Godfrey didn't give away anything. Not a twitch of his lip, not a glance, nothing. He gave me nothing to work off of. Was I overthinking this, or did he actually know I was a complete and utter pervert? That was, until he went on; "Whatever it is you think about when you're alone," he said, dry as bone. "That should do the trick for your nerves." And then, without missing a beat-- "Unless, of course, that's the problem."

Mr. Godfrey could've kicked me in my gut, and that would've had the same effect as what I felt right now. Casually, calmly, as though he wasn't toying with me, he pushed his chair back and stood up, straightening his cuffs like we hadn't been sitting in a room pooling thick with tension. 

Finally, Mr. Godfrey looked at me. His green eyes were gorgeous as ever, the same pair of eyes that had stared back at me all weekend from the magazine I had bought with him on the front page. Proper, handsome. The fact that he was even looking at me at all felt like a blessing. "Lilac," he added, casual, distracted, as he nodded to my nails. "French?"

I wanted to explode with joy; he had noticed! Suddenly, I wasn't feeling so awful, and by pure instinct, I put my manicured hands forward as though to show them off. "French," I echoed, trying not to look so over the moon. It was impossible. I felt like a cat that had just gotten a good patting down, and I was two seconds away from purring with delight at being seen.

The more I thought about the way his attention made me feel, the more his words echoed in my mind. French... Did Mr. Godfrey like to French? The thought of him kissing anyone, let alone me, made me want to run through the glass windows of the Godfrey Industries skyscraper and plummet to my certain death. It was too riveting a thought.

"Right," he hummed, clicking his tongue. "Good." 

In this light, with him standing over me like this, the light hit Mr. Godfrey from behind with the most gorgeous illumination, and created an optical illusion which gave him a halo. Still, the halo didn't match the sinister hold he had over me-- he still knew. He knew. Odd bastard.

Would he do anything about it, though? 

... I wasn't sure whether I wanted him to or not.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I should've known that Mr. Godfrey wouldn't let me off the hook this easily. I had worked for him for exactly a week now, but I should've still figured out that I wouldn't manage to get away from this with a simple verbal slap on the wrist.

The same meeting room as earlier felt colder, like even the air didn't want to piss him off. The table gleamed in the office lighting, wiped to perfection. There were branded folders laid out like offerings, perfectly aligned, not a single edge out of place-- I hadn't touched mine. I didn't dare to, not in this company.

Mr. Godfrey sat at the head, back straight this time, no tilt, no casual lean. He looked precise, controlled, like he had already done this meeting a thousand times before. His suit jacket was still on, his hair perfect, green eyes unreadable. The son of the Azerbaijani president sat across from him, joined by two stone-faced advisors, but even they looked like background noise in comparison to my boss.

I watched him speak, and it was like watching someone play chess at a speed I couldn't even process-- was Mr. Godfrey the Magnus Carlsen of the business world? Who'd have thought?

... Me, actually. 

Because despite the fact that he had caught me doing the unthinkable, I wanted his approval more than anything. After all the stalking I had done over the weekend, I had figured out that this guy was brilliant. After inheriting the company from his mother some years ago, he had turned everything around and somehow managed to make Godfrey Industries even better than it was, although that was previously deemed impossible before he got his position as CEO. He had created an imperium; Mr. Godfrey was a pro, and every word landed perfectly as he presented the business proposal. He smiled only when it served a purpose. He didn't fidget, didn't stumble, unlike me. 

He was a God.

A God that knew exactly what I had done.

A God that... hadn't fired me for it.

Why not?

I bet he liked tying the noose around my throat and hitting me like I was a piñata-- I felt like one, anyway. He probably enjoyed the tortured look in my eyes and the way I squirmed in my seat whenever he'd glance my way. Did he see the way I tried to hide in plain sight? I always worried that with the next glance, he'd somehow figure out a new way to fuck me over, the Godfrey way.

But in the midst of my internal worry, I should've been worried about the external ones-- the things Mr. Godfrey could do to me right now, in this moment.

I had simply sat there like a fucking paperweight, trying not to breathe too loudly. Couldn't even have bothered a fly. I hadn't bothered anyone, for that matter, hadn't said a word, because I figured that it would save me. Yet... I didn't realize he had stopped talking until it was too late.

Then, like flicking on a light, Mr. Godfrey's green gaze cut to me, sharp as a blade with a sinister-looking smile spreading across his plush lips. He called my name, light as anything, until my worst nightmare came true followed; "Now, everybody, my dear secretary will tell you about the revised compliance framework," 

My blood froze. What compliance framework?!

No, no, no!

I blinked, once, twice. My throat was already closing. "I-- sir, I'm not sure I--"

"Yes, you are," Mr. Godfrey didn't look at me anymore, ruthlessly dismissing my panic. He was reaching for his glass of water, the picture of composure, as though my complete unraveling didn't faze him in the slightest. 

Our company turned to me with polite expectation, and I momentarily locked eyes with the son of the president of Azerbaijan-- my mind was blanking as I stared at Mr. Godfrey, hoping that would demand his attention, and that he wouldn't punish my inappropriate incident like this.

My heart was pounding painfully against my chest as it hit me; he already knew I'd do whatever he asked. I was his secretary. A toy. Something to poke at for amusement when his real work got too boring. I was now stuck between the two worst things imaginable: looking like an idiot in front of a powerful foreign delegation, or disappointing him-- okay, that last one would be the worst thing in the world, no question there. There was nothing I wanted more than to make him proud, and what the fuck did that say about me?

I swallowed hard, gathering the courage. "The compliance framework," I breathed, voice thin and pitiful, like someone had pressed it through a cheese grater. "It's being... revised."

Oh my God. Oh my God.

No one said anything.

Mr. Godfrey sipped his water like he was at a wine tasting. I wanted to wring his neck and leave him to hang out in the barn for the foxes to take him for dinner. 

"The framework has, uh--" I glanced down at the folder I hadn't touched. I fumbled to open it, praying to any and every deity that there'd be something, anything, to save me. However, to my panic, the page on compliance was just a table of numbers with a header that said 'TBD'.

To Be Decided?!

"--been... adjusted to meet evolving regulatory standards," I continued, babbling nonsense. "To, eh, ensure ethical partnerships with our... with our international contacts. Especially ones that, uh, span across oil-based initiatives and... and green developments."

That was when I heard it.

The faintest sound.

A breath. Sharp. Like a short laugh, almost choked off.

Mr. Godfrey.

He was still looking at his papers, still perfectly composed, but I knew that sound-- he was enjoying this so much that he could barely contain it. Bastard.

I cleared my throat, trying to steady my voice, trying to act like I wasn't seconds away from throwing myself through the glass windows and plummeting to my certain death. Still, the biggest struggle was not to crumple the paper in my hands from the anger coursing through my veins. "These adjustments will help us... position ourselves competitively in light of ESG policies," I continued, voice shaky with torment. Were these policies even a thing? Was I making things up now? I had overheard them talking about this earlier, but I had no idea what it was, or whether it fit into this scenario. 

My heart hammered into my ribs until the son of the president faintly smiled, which I guessed was a good sign (phew). But Mr. Godfrey didn't give me any signs of whether I was miserably failing or if I was on the correct track-- it made me want to impress him even more. I wanted him to at least nod once, maybe even look pleased, but he just turned a page; a silent verdict that I had failed, but not in a way that truly mattered to anyone but me.

He liked watching me fall. He liked knowing he could snap his fingers and make me dance, even if I had no clue what the song was. I stayed seated, cheeks burning, hands trembling on the polished table, waiting for my next cue like a pathetic little marionette. I wanted to cross my legs, relieve the immense anxiety, somehow soothe myself, but I was locked-- I couldn't move. 

Did I really deserve this for what I had done last Friday? The very thing I had been getting away with my whole life?

And then, finally--

Mr. Godfrey spoke.

"Charming, isn't she?"

I whipped my head toward him. What?

He still wasn't looking at me. He was facing the son of the president, lounging with the kind of confidence that made my skin prickle. The sight of him, breathtaking as always, made me want to forget the shit he had just put me through-- how could anyone hate such beauty?

Mr. Godfrey gave me a soft nod which would've made me swoon in any other context, like he was giving me permission to sit back and be quiet, and turned back to the room. "To clarify, the revisions made to the compliance framework will prioritize the ESG adaptations within the joint venture clause. The preliminary numbers are being finalized internally,"

His voice was silk. Not a stumble, not a single misstep. Nothing like the pathetic mess he had made of me.

"Of course," the advisor said, nodding like none of my verbal vomit had ever existed. "We look forward to reviewing that."

And I looked forward to going home and choking to death in my own nausea and shame. 

I couldn't sit here anymore-- "May I be excused?" I shot in, my voice a mere breath. Still, Mr. Godfrey caught my tone, along with the glossed over look in my eyes; this way, I pleaded with him, begged him to let me go, to give me a second to collect myself. 

Mr. Godfrey tilted his head at the sound of my voice, his eyes landing on me like a pressure point. It wasn't pity that moved him, or concern-- just awareness. Cold, victorious, and satisfactory awareness. He said nothing at first, and the silence dragged long enough for my throat to close again, long enough for the pit in my stomach to start burning. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, shame blooming like a bruise. 

And then, just as I was about to lower my gaze and give up; 

"Granted,"

Mr. Godfrey wasn't cruel, not openly, but he wasn't kind either. His words were measured, just like everything else he did-- like every word had passed through some internal sieve of control before reaching the air. He didn't look at me again; he turned back toward the room, toward power, as if I had ceased to exist to him.

"The proposal stands as outlined," he continued, speaking directly to the president's son now, his voice once again smooth, anchored. "Any further clarifications will be sent through legal. My team will follow up."

I didn't breathe until I reached the door, and even then, it felt like my lungs were full of someone else's air. I kept my back straight, I didn't run, but I was certain that behind me, Roman Godfrey was smiling like a man who had just proven a point-- one I didn't fully understand yet, but one I knew I wouldn't forget.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I was about to understand, but not yet. 

Not now.

By the time five o'clock rolled around, my breathing had stabilized, but only because it was too exhausted to bother. I had floated through the rest of the day in a daze-- filling out papers I didn't read, answering emails I barely skimmed, and avoiding Mr. Godfrey's office like it housed a guillotine; which, frankly, it kind of did. A modern, Armani-suited guillotine with the cruelest green eyes I had ever seen. French. That was why I ended up in the only place where I knew I wouldn't be devoured.

... If only Mr. Godfrey would devour me.

Peter's office was quieter than the rest of the floor, somehow untouched by the constant hum of printers, the polite conversations, and the surgical tension in the air. He had let me in without a word, barely looking up from his screen, and I took the silence as permission; I sat in the extra chair, hands tucked neatly in my lap, trying not to look like I didn't belong.

But the fact still stood; I didn't belong. Godfrey Industries was a cathedral of competence. Everyone was sharp, expensive, concise, and nothing like me.I had come straight from college with a good GPA, but I had no idea what I was doing. I was unpolished, unsure, yet Peter never made me feel like a walking accident. Something told me we were more alike than I had initially thought. 

My chair made a scraping noise against the floor no matter how carefully I moved it. Outside his office, the building was starting to exhale-- phones stopped ringing, footsteps thinned the sonic bubble, and the last of the suits murmured down the corridor. Peter still wasn't looking at me-- he reached for his mug, took a sip of something seemingly bitter, and casually asked; "Bad day?" He was typing as he spoke, voice as steady as the cursor on his screen. "It's only Monday. You don't get to give up until at least Thursday, kid."

I sighed. "Thursday feels like millennia away,"

Peter opened his drawer and thumbed through it until he found a round box. He slipped a pouch of snus under his upper lip as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and only then did his eyes flick to meet mine. "What did he do?"

"Pardon?"

"Bossman," Peter said. "Roman?"

I straightened up in my seat-- it was odd to hear someone refer to Mr. Godfrey by his first name. "He, uh... humiliated me in the meeting,"

"Yeah?"

"In front of people who are practically Middle Eastern royalty, yes,"

Peter tried not to laugh. With the snus tucked under his lip, the effort made his mouth look crooked. "Christ," he huffed. "I feel like I've heard this story before..." He leaned back, his chair giving a soft complaint. "Okay, maybe not this exact story, but it's rather familiar." He thumbed at a speck on his desk, didn't elaborate, yet there was something peculiar about the way he looked at me now, like he was watching some déjà vu unfold in real time.

Immediately, I was irked-- "Okay, enough," I huffed. "His old secretary?"

"What about her?"

"I just-- what happened?"

He made a low sound in his throat, half a laugh, half a sigh, and pressed his lip down on the snus, jaw twitching like he was grinding down on the bitterness. "She was good," he mumbled. "Efficient."

"But?"

Peter didn't look at me when he smiled, just shook his head like I was adorably clueless. "Sorry kid," he cooed, patronizing beyond belief. "Can't tell you without a subpoena."

"Oh, come on," I leaned forward on my chair, desperate now. "I think I saw her the day of my interview. Black hair down to her hips, paper between her teeth like some dog... It looked like a humiliation ritual."

Peter clicked his tongue, not quite smiling. "Sounds like her, yeah,"

"Yeah?"

"Typical Roman,"

"Typical?" I leaned further, feeling my heart pound into my ribs. "Peter, seriously, it's like you're edging me!"

He didn't answer right away, possibly stunned by my comparison. Something in me shifted-- Mr. Godfrey would've probably appreciated my foul blabber, but Peter... he was outright uncomfortable. Mr. Godfrey would've at least been amused, maybe even exhilarated by my odd choice of words, and the reminder of it made my heart sink. Why couldn't Peter be more like my boss? 

... Why did I want him to be like my evil inappropriate boss?

On the other hand of my inner monologue, Peter simply returned his eyes to the screen, not bothering to get caught up in my odd choice of words. "We're friends," he said, a calm reminder that felt both fatherly and condescending. "But I'm not setting myself on fire so you can toast a marshmallow on gossip."

Gossip? I was sure that the story of Mr. Godfrey's old secretary was important for me to know. "But!--"

Three soft knocks at the door cut me off. I turned too quickly with a hitch of my breath, like I had been caught doing something illegal.

And just as I feared, Mr. Godfrey stood in the doorway, framed in the golden spill of hallway light with his suit jacket unbuttoned, tie a little loosened-- still immaculate, still the kind of handsome that made me nervous to blink, like I was worried he'd vanish, or worse, look directly at me and see something I didn't want him to.

Still, there was something different about him, different from earlier.

"Our guests are gone," Mr. Godfrey looked past me, and directly at Peter with some sort of dismissal. "I'll need her now, if you're done giving her asylum."

Peter didn't respond right away. He shifted in his chair, slow and reluctant, as if our boss's presence had changed the air pressure in the room. His hand moved back to the mouse, clicking once, twice-- anything to keep it casual and controlled. It was as though he went back on some automatic cruise control; "Go easy on the kid," he said, no longer looking at me. 

Mr. Godfrey let out a low hum, similarly to a laugh, as he crossed his arms over his chest, chewing invisible gum as I quietly got up from my chair. He knew I'd follow him, anyway. I had to. Cocky bastard. "Or what?" he called. "You'll be more swamped with work than you already are?"

Peter's eyes darted to meet his-- it almost felt like a warning, yet playful, like they had been friends in another lifetime. What was I witnessing? "Are you threatening me with another case?"

"Threatening?" Mr. Godfrey watched as I stilled by his side, staring down at my shoes. Was he catching the way I wanted to disappear? The way I clacked the tips of my shoes together in order to pass time, to make myself smaller? Something told me it amused him to see me so pliable. "Is giving you more work a threat, Rumancek? The very thing I've employed you to do?"

Peter almost laughed, resorting to shaking his head as he typed something. "All I'm saying is, go easy on the kid,"

The kid? Was that my new name?"

Mr. Godfrey scanned me up and down like he was thinking about it, deciding whether or not to comply. Or was he maybe checking me out?-- no, that was definitely my wishful thinking. With his eyes on me, he held one hand out toward Peter, snapping his fingers in a dismissive, almost derogatory manner; "Get to work," 

And it was then that he put that same hand on the small of my back, gently pushing me out of the doorway to Peter's office so he could close the door.

The touch was warm, soft-- it took my breath away. I was sure my breath even hitched, just slightly, not loud enough for anyone to hear, but my cheeks heated in the same heave of air, pinking up like newly attached organs in a successful transplant. My eyes searched for Mr. Godfrey's, looking for a confirming smile, something out of character to accompany the touch, but no. 

The second his hand left me, the second I turned to see him, he was gone. Mr. Godfrey didn't even look at me when he walked past me, not even needing to turn around to check if I was following-- of course I was. 

When we got to his office shortly after, his door clicked softly behind him as he motioned for me to sit down opposite his desk. I caught the scent of his cologne when I passed him, daring to close my eyes and relish in it for just a second. This was bad. I caught myself doing it the second I did it, though-- I needed to stop fixating on my boss, stat.

The humiliation of everything that had happened last Friday and earlier today burned fresh in my mind as Mr. Godfrey approached me, not yet taking his seat. It made me hold my breath, made the tips of my fingers tingle with burning fervour, and I couldn't look at him. I refused to. After what he did to me today, I wouldn't, not when we were alone like this.

Mr. Godfrey placed himself in front of me, leaning against his desk as he towered over me with all the time in the world. 

He looked so handsome in that suit. So unbelievably handsome, as he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, almost as though he was relieving himself of the pressure around his throat-- then, he cleared it. Green eyes, staring down at me. Angled nose, pointed down at the ground as he scoured his brain on what to say first. It was almost as though he was questioning whether to follow through with this, as though he had been here before and deemed it a misstep he wouldn't repeat; the more I sat in this tension, the more I thought about the odd tear in the previous secretary's skirt. 

I couldn't breathe properly, feeling the air getting stuck in my throat. We were going to talk about it now, weren't we? My body responded to Mr. Godfrey before my brain had the chance to catch up, like muscle memory from a life I hadn't lived yet. And right now, I could feel it happening again-- my shoulders rolling forward, my spine rounding out with the weight of his gaze, thighs drawing just a little closer together under the hem of my skirt, as though they remembered something I shouldn't have let happen.

Then, softly, like he was making a casual observation about the weather, he said; "I've... always thought there was a particular kind of bravery in submission,"

I felt the hair at the nape of my neck stand up. What? That was the complete opposite of what I thought he would say-- I had no idea what I thought he'd say, actually, but it was definitely not this. 

"It's not weakness, not at all. It's the opposite... it takes discipline, nerve. The kind of self-knowledge most people spend decades uncovering," Mr. Godfrey traced the wood of his desk with his pointer as though he was casually passing time, but then he leaned forward, softening his tone. "However, I don't have decades to offer you. I'm keen to speed things up."

With a quick breath, I dared to look up at him, my eyes full with complete and utter confusion-- what was happening right now? Did he... see me? Could he sense me, like I thought he could all along? "I don't-- I don't know what you mean, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey dismissed me; "You didn't back down," he continued. "When I told you to start talking about the compliance framework, you just did it. Any other normal person would've made up something to excuse themselves, to avoid making a fool of themselves, but you... you heard my word, and you just adhered." He bit down on his bottom lip, holding back a string of laughs as though he relished in the memory. "I'm quite sure I've hired the right person for the job, but... there's just something on my mind that's really bothering me."

I swallowed--- I could feel the burn increasing behind my eyes. "Yes?" I stayed planted in the chair, a pinned insect, watching the way he stood up and paced calmly around the desk like a man thinking very carefully about what to do with something he'd already caught. I wondered if he had ever thought about chopping me to pieces and hanging my head over his desk like a bust of a dead, caught deer-- I felt like one, anyway.

But then, Mr. Godfrey stopped by the side of my chair, and dropped down so he was crouching next to me, staring up at me with those green eyes that usually only looked back at me from my Forbes magazine with him on the cover. My breath caught as I shifted in my chair to look at him; I probably wouldn't get many opportunities to look at him from above. 

"I know you're fresh," he said, lightly, almost fondly, as he ran his fingers across the arm of the chair. "Which is why I'm only talking to you the way I feel you want to be talked to."

What? I felt beyond lost, and my breath felt choked in my chest. "Sir, I--"

"But the way I feel you want to be talked to is very specific, so I want to make sure I'm... adjusting correctly, per se. I wouldn't want there to be a misunderstanding," There was something in his eyes, like he was searching me for answers, asking for some sort of permission to proceed; I couldn't decode it. His voice was almost careful now, the faintest shadow of uncertainty threading through it, asking for something I didn't know how to give.

"Do you like working here?" he tried, softer this time.

I nodded before I could stop myself, a quick, embarrassed jerk of my head-- of course I did. I liked it too much, despite the emotional torture that came with being his secretary. Was that maybe the part I enjoyed?

Mr. Godfrey smiled faintly, not triumphant, but almost relieved, and for a moment, he stayed very still, letting the tension breathe between us. Then, his hand slid closer along the armrest, deliberate but slow, stopping just inches away from where my fingers clutched the chair in a death grip. He didn't touch me-- he only waited, like he was giving me the choice to close the distance.

I stared at his hand, pulse hammering against my ribs. The skin between his thumb and forefinger was pink yet golden under the office light, so close I could feel the warmth of him bleeding into me.

Oh God.

Was I overthinking this? Was I imagining this? Whatever it was, I had a feeling I knew what was happening, what he wanted me to do, and believe me, I was ready to do whatever Mr. Godfrey asked me to do.

So fuck me, but I took a chance and shifted slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, and brushed the back of my pinky against his. It was feather-light, could've been easily excused as accidental if anyone had been watching, but we both knew better.

Mr. Godfrey exhaled, a quiet, barely-there sound of relief. He lifted his gaze back to mine, his mouth curving into something dangerous, something impossibly fond, yet something he knew he shouldn't be doing. "I'm glad," he murmured, now retreating his hand and standing up, walking back around his desk.

I had to clear my throat, jarred by his touch; "About-- About what?"

Mr. Godfrey shrugged. "That you like working here,"

Ah. Of course.

Mr. Godfrey sat down in his chair, the soft groan of leather breaking the silence, and rested his elbows lightly on the arms, steepling his fingers. He watched me without blinking, and for a moment, I wondered if he could see right through my clothes, right through my skin, down into the marrow of what I really wanted-- I wondered whether he'd like what he saw. Would he like the bra I was wearing, or was it not lacy enough for his taste? This guy definitely liked lace. Definitely. Red or black, I wasn't sure. 

"I have another question," Mr. Godfrey said, voice cutting through my thoughts.

"Yes, sir?"

His lips twitched at the 'sir' as though it pleased him, encouraged him. "Are you happy to do what I ask of you?"

There was no way to answer that honestly without exposing myself, but it didn't feel like there was a choice anymore. "Yes, sir," I mumbled.

Something shifted in the air between us, thickening-- the faintest gleam entered his green eyes, and slowly, deliberately, he reached down and pushed a button under his desk. A soft mechanical click came from behind me, and it was only when I turned around that I realized the door to his office had locked from the inside. The blinds also came down with a low whir.

Panic and excitement ravaged through me, neither fully winning. Fuck.

With wide eyes, my head turned back to Mr. Godfrey as my hands held onto the chair like it could possibly save me from whatever was about to happen to me. "Sir?" I tried. "What exactly did I just say yes to?"

Humoured, Mr. Godfrey bit back on his growing smirk. Something told me he had waited for this moment for a while. "To put it plainly, you've said yes to the consequences of your actions,"

"Consequences?"

"Yes,"

"Of my... actions?"

"Are you perhaps hard of hearing?" he asked, repeating himself with annoyance; "The consequences of your actions. Were you never reprimanded as a kid, perchance?"

Reprimanded? What the fuck was he about to do to me? "I was," My mind buzzed with horror and excitement-- was he about to bend me over his knee and spank me raw? Why the hell did I even want that so bad in the first place? All these new thoughts were beyond overwhelming.

"Good," he said. "Then you know what it's about."

My heart pounded, breath catching in my throat, but Mr. Godfrey didn't rush to move. He just reclined in his chair with casual elegance, stretching out one long leg under the desk, glancing briefly at his computer screen like I wasn't even there. "I think," he said; "you can handle this next part yourself." Then, he spared me the smallest flick of his green eyes, cool and bored-- they were so ridiculously gorgeous. "You remember what you did the other day, don't you?"

My mouth dried instantly-- oh no.

Oh no, no, no, no, no.

This was it. I was about to get my head chopped off in the Godfrey guillotine.

But Mr. Godfrey turned back to his screen, clicking his mouse lazily as he sorted through his inbox; "Go ahead," he sighed. "Unless you're planning on wasting my time." He tapped a few keys, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. Without looking up, he added, tone perfectly dry; "I so hope you won't."

I felt like I was burning alive-- humiliation and excitement stirred in my gut, leaving me slightly trembling. Was this really happening? Did I understand this correctly? "Mr. Godfrey, sir, I'm really sorry about Friday, I swear I won't--"

"Don't apologize," he huffed. "Just do as you're told. Are you not happy to do what I ask of you? Did you lie to me earlier?"

Happy as ever. Happy beyond belief. "No-- No, sir, I would never lie to you,"

"Good," he said, dragging his hand through his brown hair before buttoning up the top button of his nicely ironed shirt. "Wouldn't want a filthy liar running around my office, right?" 

Then, with a dismissive flick of his hand, he motioned for me to get on with it.

"Right," I breathed. This was my repercussion, right? Humiliating myself in front of him?

... I could deal with that.

Slowly, so, so slowly, I pressed my thighs together, the movement shamefully familiar, dragging a hot, needy friction right against where I needed it most. Why was I doing this? Why wasn't I fighting this, questioning this? I couldn't think. What if I had misread the whole situation, what if he was just messing with me, what if, what if?

But then-- "You'll let me know when you're finished," he said, not even granting me a glance. "Won't you?" Mr. Godfrey casually scrolled through his emails, reading, occasionally clicking open a response window. It made me feel like I was furniture, like I didn't exist at all except for his mild amusement, yet I felt like the most important thing in the world for being allowed to do something like this in his office... for being encouraged to do this in front of the man on the front of my Forbes magazine.

"Yeah," I breathed, allowing myself the casual tone. 

But Mr. Godfrey clicked his mouse with one loud snap; "Sorry, what was that?"

My cheeks burned. "Yes, sir,"

"There you go," 

I shifted again, crossing my legs to squeeze just a little harder-- I couldn't even help myself anymore. I was getting desperate, and some part of me wanted him to notice, to see me, which is why I allowed the softest of sounds to slip out.

But... he still didn't react.

No praise. No encouragement. He just worked, unbothered, as though he hadn't just locked the door to his office and commanded me into this humiliating spectacle, like he hadn't told me to get myself off with the utmost nonchalance. 

I clenched harder, chasing friction and some kind of reward. The room felt too hot, too quiet, filled with the soft clicks of Mr. Godfrey's mouse and keyboard. Occasionally, he leaned back, scanning his emails like this was just any other Monday-- it was both infuriating and irrevocably hot. "For your information," he started, voice almost lazy, conversational; "I've been watching you squirm in your seat for about a week now without thinking anything about it, but you became too damn obvious on Friday when your face got all flushed. Subtlety isn't your strong suit. However, it's been fun knowing that you thought you could get away with that right under my nose. Reckless, too, if you ask me, but fun."

Nose. His Forbes front-cover nose. Forbes nose, Forbes nose, Forbes nose. I didn't dare to look at him, and my cheeks pinked up as I fixated on the orchid in the back of his office-- this was a horrifying revelation. 

Another click of Mr. Godfrey's mouse followed. "I don't usually do fun," He let the words trail off, the smile in his voice unmistakable. "Yet... you're pleasantly entertaining."

My thighs squeezed tighter at the nice heat of his words-- this might be one of the few nice things he's ever said to me. The friction sharpened, aching, unbearably undeniable, as I hid my smile in the palm of my hand, squirming in my seat. 

Still, Mr. Godfrey didn't glance at me. "Your hair is nicer this way, now that it's down," he said, like he was commenting on a typo in an email. "But do you have any shorter skirts? I'm aware of the office protocol about them having to be just above the knee, so... surprise me, won't you? You're a smart girl."

Another click.

"And just so you know, you worry too much. Don't worry. I notice you,"

Another sharp movement of his hand on the mouse, another click-- his attention was entirely elsewhere as I bit down on my lip, hoping he wasn't noticing the rather maroon colour of my cheeks. He noticed me? He saw me? Even after all his dismissal and humiliation, he was still keeping an eye on me?

At this point, I was working myself toward the edge, hoping to maybe unlock some more words of praise, or anything at all. It hadn't felt like this before, I hadn't let myself be so blatant about getting off this way, hadn't ever been watched while knowing-- this was nuts. "You notice me?"

"Yes," 

My breath hitched with satisfaction, but only because I allowed it to. I couldn't stop it-- the small, broken sound that cracked out of my throat, and the sheepish smile that was now very much in his sight. "You said you weren't the least bit interested in me,"

"I did?"

"In my job interview," I breathed. "You said you weren't."

"And I didn't lie," he said, shrugging as he typed. "I'm not interested in you. You don't interest me in the least."

What? Then what the fuck was happening? What was I doing? Why was he making me do this? I couldn't think, couldn't breathe-- in the midst of it all, horror washed over me as I realized how close I was, and how him saying that had pushed me even closer to the edge. Why was I reacting like this? Why did I want him to go on...?

Mr. Godfrey gave a soft huff of a laugh, low and dry. It was without question that he understood I was close, yet I had no idea how, seeing as he wasn't even looking at me. "Go ahead," he said, almost bored. "Get it over with."

The shame made it worse, the shame made it better, and I broke against myself with a muffled gasp, thighs clenching tight as the euphoria raced through me, vicious, humiliating, and helpless. I slumped forward slightly, trying to catch my breath, trembling with the aftershocks.

... What the fuck had I done?

In the midst of my shame and post-orgasmic choppy heaves of air, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes met mine for the first time since the beginning of this entire humiliating ordeal, and it felt like being doused in cold water. There was no heat in his expression, no lust, just something measured, distant, and unreadable. It was as though he was back to being a businessman inspecting a product, and not a man who had just made his secretary unravel in front of him as a form of punishment.

"Huh," he finally said. The barest flicker of something crossed his face-- interest, amusement? It vanished before I could place it. "Not bad."

... Not bad? 

Not good, either, then. 

Just... adequate. Passable. 

What if I wanted to be perfect? Had I not done what he wanted? How could I do better? I wanted to, so badly. My want nearly made me blind.

Mr. Godfrey's attention returned to the screen, disregarding me and my state. Click. Tap. Scroll. But then, he spoke; "Next time, though..." His voice was business-casual again, and it made me want to claw my eyes out with frustration. "Ask before assuming you've earned the privilege."

I blinked, trying to understand the shape of that sentence. My body was still raw and with aftershocks; "Sir?"

Green eyes darted my way, ready to clear up the confusion. "If you're going to take the liberties you need to take to get relief during your work hours, you are no longer permitted to tend to them without my verbal approval. Have I made myself clear?"

Jesus Christ.

I stared back at Mr. Godfrey, wide-eyed and rather horrified. "Why don't you fire me?" I breathed. "You-- You have all the grounds to fire me for inappropriate behaviour, and-- and I don't know what just happened, but I feel like--"

"I don't fire good employees just because they have poor judgment when left alone for too long," he shot in. "That's a training issue."

A sound clawed at my throat-- half a laugh, half a gasp. "This is training?"

Mr. Godfrey started to seem very, very bored with me. I sensed it even before his eyes turned back to his screen, huffing at the email that ticked in-- or was he just frustrated with me again? "This," he said; "is me giving you structure."

Structure? Maybe that was all I needed? As his secretary, I was the one who structured his schedule, so it made sense that he would want to structure me. Structure me, rearrange me to his liking, shape me, build me from scratch all over again, reset me--

God, how I wanted all of that, and I hadn't even properly known it before now.

Mr. Godfrey sighed, glaring at me like I was wasting his time. He clicked the same button that had locked his door previously, undoing it, before he waved his hand towards it. "That will be all,"

What?

Was that... it?

My breath caught in my throat, shame mixing with something else, something stupid, something humiliatingly grateful. "Okay...?" I stood on trembling legs, smoothed my skirt, and tried to look like I wasn't about to fall apart completely. His attention was already gone-- he was somewhere else entirely, and I missed him dearly within a few seconds. 

But then, he called my name when I reached the door. I spun around on my heel, desperate not to let the opportunity to get another word with him pass. "Yes, sir?" Please, please, please.

He hummed, typing up a new email. "How's your relationship with your father?"

... What?

I could only laugh, caught off-guard. Was he dissing me? Was he making a joke? If anything, it was rather funny in my head. Was he pinning my compliance on my supposed daddy issues? He knew nothing about me, yet he dared to assume I even had those issues at all...? I blamed the post-orgasmic state of my mind for the words that slipped past my lips with the utmost humour; "Oh, fuck you!"

Mr. Godfrey's head snapped toward me, green eyes wide with surprise. The silence stretched, so did the tension, and just as I thought he was about to lunge forward and chew my head off-- 

"I'll see you tomorrow,"

Suppressing a sickeningly girly giggle at being let off easy, I left Mr. Godfrey's office with shame burning in my cheeks, and my heart hammering with excitement.

If only he would pay attention to me like this every day.

... Would he?

(a/n: pls why am I finding it so hot when he's being completely dismissive and just AAGGAHHHHGGHHHH yes ok my brain is melting, MWAH to whoever got this far!!<333)

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[taylorklosscomeout138]

Do you really wanna know where Taylor was April 29th??

I'll give you a hint: Not with Joe Alwyn

On April 29th 2020 Joe Alwyn made multiple insta story posts from Taylor's house including pictures of himself and Taylor's cat Benjamin Button. But there was zero proof posted that Taylor was actually with him.

This was in attempt to convince fans that him and Taylor were quarantining together

However.....

Someone else also posted this day,

Implying that Taylor was in fact not at home with Joe, but instead she was quarantining with Karlie having Kookies for breakfast

Some fans speculate that the lyric in High Infidelity "Do you really want to know where I was April 29th?" was written about this exact date as the song reflects on her being dishonest about being somewhere else and implies that most listeners wouldn't like it if they knew the truth about where she really was, more specifically, who she was really with; Karlie Kloss.

2 weeks later from April 29th 2020, Taylor made her own little baking post, this time posting cinnamon buns inside an oven with the caption

"When you're proud of your buns"

It is important to note three things:

1. "Bun in the oven" is code for pregnancy

2. Two months after this post, Taylor released Kardigan featuring the lyric "dancing in your Levis"

3. About 9 months after this post, Karlie's son was born and he was named Levi

Do with that what you will but if Karlie was implying Taylor was quarantining with her in 2020, then when Taylor made that buns post she would still have been staying with Karlie

Some other major evidence:

- 1 month before Levi was born Taylor released a Cowboy Like Me hat and for the first time started calling them "dad hats"

(Yes that is a type of hat but she had not previously labeled them as dad hats before like she continues to now to this day)

- More strikingly, post Levi being born in 2021, for the first major time ever Taylor released Mother's Day merch

It can be logically concluded that just like any other WLW/MLM couple, so long as Taylor and Karlie actually were still in a relationship together in 2021, that she would be a parental figure regardless of any other factors.

I believe this is specifically why the time around April 29th 2020 had so much significance to her, because they already had their big plans and that is why Joe had to do his part and cover up the narrative with a stunt that he was "with Taylor"

In 2023 we got this dad hat with a very interesting choice of design.........

The way the S swirls into the T creates the body of the letter K. This is very reminiscent of how Karlie's love lock is a K that is also not completed so that it is a T at the same time.

And I'll just conclude with one of the most blatant things Karlie did that also proved that she wanted Kaylors to know it's true......

In 2024 Karlie posted Levi in a "Kith" hat... and at the time if you simply googled "Kith", it came up with the result "TaylorMade"

Which is because TaylorMade is a golfing company that had just launched a collab with Kith in 2024 when Karlie posted this.

Kith is also New York City based btw...